


Turning the Cards of Fate

by SylvaniusOStephans



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 59,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7992682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvaniusOStephans/pseuds/SylvaniusOStephans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where people are born with their names in a book for telling what they will do with their lives, the government runs a tight ship. At every birth, someone is there with a bastardized version of the Future Picture. Once a name is decided upon, the agent finds out what they will do with their lives. If the child will kill anyone, they are put down. If they will have a serious addiction, they are killed. If they betray the country, they are killed. If they become a minor criminal, they are taken from their parents and placed in a special jail that will keep them alive until they turn 21, and get a new name. A set of fraternal twins are born, one will become a doctor with healing hands, the other will have sticky ones. What happens when the twins are confused for each other, and the older ones locked away, while the younger remains with his parents?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A harsh scream from a young woman echoed through the dull white building. Most people stopped for but a moment, before continuing on their ways. They knew that sound. Everyone did. It was the sound of a young mother finding out that the Agents would be there soon, possibly to take away her child.

Some felt pity for the young woman, others ducked their heads and tried to pretend they never heard anything. Most, however, ignored it. The average person understood why the Agents were so important, and couldn't even begin to understand a world without them.

They brought peace, controlled the population, and destroyed all bad people before they had a chance to become criminals. It was the way of life that they, their parents, even their great grandparents knew, and never fought. They had lived in prosperity for almost six hundred years after four World War's almost destroyed the planet.

Everyone was thankful that the One Nation was the only power in the world, as even though the livable land was separated into twenty six sectors, it was impossible for a nation to go into war or famine without the One Nation bearing down on them. No one wanted to fight against the power of the One Nation. 

That said, everyone understood that the Future Picture being done at birth was for the best. That was the only thing that kept their children innocent, and got rid of all problems before they had a chance to become murders, rapists, or worse. 

Why would they? Sure, it was a terrifying decision to have a child, not knowing if they would live more than a few hours before being slaughtered by the Agents, but it was necessary. It was for the good of not only the society as a whole, but for the child. It was better for the children to be dealt with before they became monsters than risking them hurting someone else. 

It also made things safer for the population as a whole. Some people grew up to kill, rape, abuse, assault, or worse to others. This way, their victims would never be hurt. It was a good thing, even if it made it more difficult for the few couples with clearance to have children to actually decide that this was something that they truly wanted. 

Ninety percent of all of the children born were fine, good, healthy children with futures as bright as the stars, but occasionally, there were others. The thought of allowing a child to grow up in a home where the parents would know what that child would end up doing, and still expect them to change and become productive members of society was simply moronic.

Once you found out something like that about someone, it was impossible to look at them as you may have before you found out. Thus why most parents refused to hold their children before a government worker, called an Agent, came to read the child. 

Agents reported straight to the Council, a group of twenty six individuals that each kept an eye on one section. The Council was on the top of the One Nation, followed by their second's, then their chosen Enforcer. After that, it was the Governor's, the Agents, the Guards who worked in the Rehabilitation Centers that the children were sent to, then the normal civilians. 

Most of the people were alright with the way things were. Most of them wouldn’t be able to deal with the stress that those above them had to. Thankfully, all of those who were above the regular civilians were separated and sent to other camps where they could learn what they needed to from those that came before them. They, unlike the criminals, weren't taken away at birth. Oh no, they spent the first eight years with their families, before spending the next thirteen years learning.

They became adults at twenty- one, just like everyone else, and they had their strengths and their weaknesses just as everyone else did.   
It was really thanks to the Agent's and all their hard work that everything ran as smoothly as it did. Not only were they the ones who were burdened with the destinies of others, but they were the ones who had to deal with the results of the children who would commit a crime.

They, along with the Guards, ran Rehabilitation Centers all over the One Nation that allowed them to try and change the destiny of a child. The only thing was, very few children ever were allowed to leave. At the age of twenty one, they would be scanned a second time, in hopes that maybe, just maybe, they would have changed. But rarely were they ever given this chance. 

Everyone knew that what happened in the Center's stayed in the Center's, and they were alright with that. It was easier to think of all the criminals, both past and future, were safely locked away from the normal ones. 

That wasn’t to say that the Agents were evil. No, the One Nation, and the Council that judged it were the saviors of their world. They kept the rest of the population from safe and sane. There were no addicts, no disabled, no poor, and no murders. Everyone worked in harmony. The only people above the average person were those who worked in the government, and that was the way they preferred it. 

They were raised in an environment that was best for them as people, and the only divisions were between the twenty- six sectors themselves. Each Sector advocated two languages, one called Common, and their personal language. It made things easier, so that everyone could communicate openly, while still being challenged to learn their native language. The only down side, not that it really was one, was that there was not a Common word for every private word. Some words just didn’t translate correctly. 

But, over all, there was no wars or poverty or famine, just content people that succeeded in making the best of their lives as each day passed. They knew from birth what they would succeed in, and strived to live up to their fates that the Future Picture foretold. It was better for everyone this way, doctors were given the information they needed from a young age to be able to become better, teachers were taught how to make sure each student learned efficiently from them, builders were always evolving and creating new masterpieces, and even the scientists were able to benefit from the teachings from the One Nation.

No one really remembered what life was like before the One Nation formed, in 2128 A.D., and no one really cared to. From the bits passed down through families, it was nothing more than torture and chaos. The world didn’t care about its other population, or the earth itself, resulting in several Forbidden Zones that couldn't be salvaged. 

It really was a pity, an older woman thought, shaking her short white hair slightly, that the One Nation hadn't formed earlier. Things would have been a lot better for everyone if they had. 

A second scream shook the building, this one was met with secretive smiles. This meant that another life had officially joined the planet. After the Agent had come and gone, most of the people in the hospital would go into the new parents room and congratulate them, if the Agent didn’t storm out with the child of course. 

If that was the case, the whole hospital would become solemn for a few moments, before getting back to their normal lives. It was a sad fact of life, but a fact none the less. Two screams like that meant two children, most likely. That said, unless they were part of a very rare breeding pair, then they would never be able to understand what the young woman was dealing with. She, like most of them, had probably been given instructions on how to not get too attached to her children. No, it was going to be difficult separating mother and child, but if she was a part of a breeding pair, she probably had known how to keep herself away. It was stressful, like most pregnancies, but it was a little bit different for expecting parents now that the Future Picture existed. 

A few halls away, a woman in her early twenties laid in her bed with tears running down her face, making her usually porcelain skin look blotchy and her green eyes now red and scratchy. Her husband stood next to her, quiet and somber. Instead of just having a single child, like they had expected, there had been two.

He was in a state of shock, but, it was his destiny to be beside his wife, and when they had been selected as a couple allowed to breed, he had been over the moon. A chance, a rare chance, to be able to raise a child was more than he ever expected, even if he had known it from the time he was born.

So many people were unable to have children, but they had managed to have two. Maybe in the old days, before the One Nation formed, it would have been a good thing. Now, though, it simply meant that the two children had a higher chance of being taken away to either grow up in jail, or be killed.

He had refused to be there with his wife when she had given birth, and refused to look at either child until the Agent told him that one, or both, would grow up to be good people. He knew that his wife hated this, and that she wanted her children, but he knew that getting too attached to either of them would just cause both more pain when they were torn from her.

Four hundred years ago, the government had come up with a way to screen the people of the world. If they didn't fit into the same strict standards that they had set, they would be killed. They had gotten their hands on a piece of technology called the Future Picture that was able to tell who someone would be with just a name and a fingerprint. It was extraordinary.  
A knock at the door pulled him out of his thoughts.

It was time.

The agent came inside, and easily walked towards the bed that his wife was resting on. The woman was dark skinned, with dark glasses covering her eyes. She was dressed in pure black, with her dark hair braided down her back.

She cleared her throat, and pulled a device out of her pocket.

The Future Picture.

"Have you decided on names yet?" She asked.

He looked at his wife, and watched as tears flowed down her face. It was up to him, it seemed. "The first born is Edrick Justinius, and the younger one is Clovis Jaisen." The names were typed in, and both children were brought into the room.

One child's hand was lifted and scanned. This child was assigned the name of Edrick. The Agent frowned, but nodded. "A doctor, huh. One that will work in one of the most progressive hospitals in the world. Very nice." The child was released and she moved onto the next child and scanned the second one. She clapped several times, and two larger men came in to take the child away.

"You never had a second child." She told them, "Clovis Jaisen never existed. This child would have grown up to be a thief, and possibly has sociopathic tendencies later in life. This child is going into the rehabilitation center. You will never see them again."

Little did any of them know, the twins had been switched. By the time anyone realized it, the Agents were long gone, and the parents didn’t want to lose their last child. Edrick had a destiny that was said to be great, normal but great. Clovis on the other hand, was going to be locked up until he was far older.

The younger twin was the only one that the parents had. It was strange, but both parents would never know. After all, neither parent had seen either of their children before the Agents had taken the older of the twins. Only the doctor who had delivered the twins would have known that both children's lives were switched. But no one would know, simply because the older twin was slightly smaller than the younger, and while both children looked similar, their differences would have been very obvious if someone had simply taken the chance to look.

But no one did.

Clovis Jaisen would live as Edrick, encouraged by his parents to grow and learn.

Edrick would be stripped of his name, and given a number instead. He would grow up in a cell, left mostly to himself, and unable to do basic things until far later in life than his younger twin.

Both twins would grow up differently, and both were living a life that wasn’t supposed to be theirs. The twin known as Edrick had a better start in life than 907154179 would, but the older twin, 907254179, that was where our story begins.


	2. Chapter 2

He leaned back against the hard, dull white bed and resisted the urge to sigh. He knew that he was in trouble, again. He knew that it was his fault, again. But really, he didn’t understand what exactly he had done to deserve getting locked in his cell once more.

Well, maybe cell was a bit of an exaggeration. The small room had a toilet, a sink, and a bed. That was it. Instead of metal bars, like some people had, he was completely surrounded by the dull white walls. It was almost as if they were afraid that he would do something.

Which, to be honest, was just moronic. How could it not be? He had learned the hard way not to speak unless given permission years ago. And, to think, he was one of the lucky ones. He was still alive. He had learned to speak. He had learned to have a personality that was different than what the Guards and Agents wished. He had learned to soak up the information that he overheard.

Most of the people here, in Valos Rehabilitation Center, either died as children or disappeared as soon as they became teenagers. He was currently twenty.

The few children that he had known as a child were long since dead, most from a punishment that was too harsh for them to handle. He, like everyone who grew up in Valos, had his fair share of scars. His entire back, the last time he had been able to see it, was a lighter shade than the rest of his skin. He had scars on top of his scars.

And he was going to get even more, he thought with an inward wince. He had known better, how could he not, but he had moronically stepped between a Guard and one of the prisoners.

Normally, he had learned to suppress the need to step in front of those receiving wrath from their wardens, but this time, he couldn't…

The Guard was a tall man, well built, and could snap someone like him in half if he tried. He didn’t want to imagine what the man would have done to the five year old who dropped her tray at midday meal. If she had been slightly taller, or maybe more hardy, he would have been able to ignore it like everyone else did, but her eyes… they were dull, dead almost. The light blue eyes of the little one didn’t belong on someone her age.

He knew that it meant that he was in for a punishment, but that didn’t make him feel like he had made a mistake. His body was much more suited for being able to handle the harsh sting of the whip cutting through the flesh on his back than the little girl whose bones showed through her translucent skin.

It was funny, in a way. Most of his scars wouldn’t have ever existed if he hadn't had a bad habit of standing up to the Guards and Agents that were picking on the younger ones. When it came to sacrificing himself for others, common sense seemed to abandon him.

The funny part was that he couldn't stop the children from getting hurt anymore than he could stop himself from butting in. He would honestly be surprised if the girl lived for the rest of the week.

If she did, she would most likely end up in extra rehabilitation classes. He suppressed a shiver. He hated those more than anything. They, like the food, left his mind foggy and made it hard for him to think.

Then again, it had always been this way. The only time he thought clearly was when they had locked him in his cell and forgot to give him a meal for several days.  
He had never known a life outside of Valos. He knew there was one, and he knew why he was here. He also knew his chance of leaving any time soon was practically none. If he stayed, though, he was sure that the attempts on his life would increase again.

How annoying.

From what he understood, which wasn’t that much, seeing as the One Nation hated him, he and the others were criminals. He, in particular, apparently had a talent for stealing that he was unaware of until recently. Most of the children here were here because they had the potential to become thieves, or some other kind of soft criminal.

He was lucky, in a way. If the Future Picture had seen a death when it peered into his soul, he would have been killed as an infant. Instead, they kept him alive, even if it was only just. Anyone who would have done something that wasn’t approved by the One Nation was either dead before they could act, or left in a rehabilitation center to rot.

Before the One Nation formed, apparently, it was chaos. People stole, killed, and gained addictions. Now, they were judged at birth instead, and monitored closely.  
It was so strange to think about a world where people lived free, before the Future Picture was created, where anyone could have been anything. Then again, many people also wasted their potential before the One Nation.

Here, as soon as children were born, they were groomed to do jobs that they were good at. Everyone was born with a potential to do something, either good or bad. The Future Picture simply warned the Agents what that something was. If it was something like, say, lock picking, public speaking, or hacking, they were taken away to be rehabilitated.  
Or, that’s what the outside world was told.

He knew that outside, they had different privileges than inside the facilities. For example, he was the 907,254,179'th child to test positive for evil from the Future Picture. The number didn’t include those who would rape, abuse someone else, or kill. Oh no. They were dealt with at birth.

Usually, from the whispers of the Guards, they were either drowned or left to starve in a locked room with other children that would have committed the same or a similar crime.  
They never made it to their first month of life.

In that way, he was lucky. He would have been a thief, which was bad enough to end up in here, but not bad enough to be killed as an infant. 

The lock clicked on the outside of his cell, and he straightened his shoulders. He allowed his eyes to dull slightly as he mentally distanced himself from his body as a well built man came into the room, holding chains that would be locked around his limbs.

Carefully, he forced himself to stay still. Any movement now would be attributed to disobedience, and that would just make things worse. Besides, the pain would soon overshadow the feeling of his cheeks heating slightly. Humiliation and pain were his main teachers. They were more effective than anything else, normally.

Being led through the building with everyone staring at the chains wrapped around not only your wrists and ankles, but his neck as well. That was enough to make even the most detached want to curl up in humiliation.

Not that it seemed to be able to stop him from making a fool of himself every so often. He knew that he wouldn't be able to resist stepping in the next time he saw a Guard going overboard on a younger child.

His eyes remained looking straight ahead, not allowing himself to look down. He had made that mistake before. He knew that the best way to get through another beating was simply to think of something else and keep quiet.

Children either froze as they saw him coming, or they pretended that they never saw anything. He understood. How could he not when he had done the same thing several times.

Once in the room, fully glass and see through on the outside, while being opaque on the inside, he was chained down. He allowed his eyes to close for a moment more than he should have. He had known that he had made the Guard mad, but not mad enough for him to get strapped down to a metal bed, face turned slightly so he wouldn't suffocate.

He had been whipped several dozen times, most of which chained him to the ceiling. But the few times that he had been chained to the metal bed had always been worse. Moving, even slightly, was impossible. And sometimes, not always but sometimes, they brought out worse than the whip or the flogger.

If he was right, he wouldn't be able to move after his punishment. There was something horrifying about being unable to move with others watching him while being in extraordinary amounts of pain.

He forced himself to take a calm breath, feeling his breath warm the back of his throat with each inhale. He would probably be left here overnight, and dragged to his cell as soon as light broke over the horizon.

Now came the part he really didn't want to think about. He needed to figure out how he was going to be able to attend the meeting set for tomorrow morning with a member of the council.

Unless he somehow managed to impress the councilman, he would be sentenced to death. He wasn’t sure how he was going to manage that when he couldn't move, but he would figure it out. Or die. 

Then again, compared to the rehabilitation center, he wasn’t sure that wasn’t a good thing. The only good thing about this whole mess was that he wouldn’t come back here after the meeting. This was his last night at the Guard's mercies. 

He still couldn't believe that he was still alive. So many had died in his lifetime, and while he tried to help as many as could, it was never enough. Hopefully, he would be able to do something to block out the memories of his time here. 

Most people would have been against losing memories, but he knew better. Remembering the dead didn’t do anyone any good. If it had helped them, or if it was good for anything other than a number, then he would try to move past the dullness of life. 

Everything in him froze as the door opened again. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on breathing. No words were said, as was typical of most interactions. Instead, the only sounds heard through the room was leather breaking skin and the slight hisses that he couldn't suppress whenever the whip bit into his skin. 

He tried to block it out, but as the wounds went from stinging to actual pain, he found himself drifting slightly. Pain made him hazy. It always had. 

It seemed as if his punisher got tired, and he almost allowed himself to hope for a moment that everything was over, but no. It wasn’t. The Guard was just getting started.

By the end of the hour, his lip wasn’t the only thing bleeding, and tears ran down his face, but he had kept his silence. He hadn't faltered on that. He had managed to keep his pride. No, it wasn’t pride, it was stubbornness. He refused to give the Guard that kind of satisfaction. It was strange, in a way, but he didn’t have much, and because of that he refused to give up on anything that was his. 

In a perfect world, there wouldn’t be anyone making fun of weakness, but celebrating strength. He knew that, while the world outside of the Rehabilitation center may have been perfect, in here, weakness got you killed.

Just like having too much strength made you a threat in their eyes. Everyone in here had to play a dangerous game. Weakness got you killed, usually in punishments that were too harsh for someone to recover from and they would drift off and never wake up. Strength was also a bad trait. Being strong meant you were more independent, and didn’t rely on others, which meant you were more likely to rebel. 

Personally, he thought that was moronic. Someone who depended on others was just as likely to break as someone who enjoyed solitude. As one of the few people who had managed to live as long as he had, he knew that the trick wasn’t to be strong or weak. It was being able to adapt. If you never get attached to anything, then it was impossible for them to use whatever it was to hurt you. 

He didn’t care for any person more than anyone else, nor did he care less for anyone. It was strange how little he cared about himself, if what he understood about others was actually how they felt. 

That was another trick. Being able to read people had gotten him both out of, and into, more messes than he could count. It astounded him that some of the people here still couldn't read others. How that was possible, he didn’t know, but somehow, someway, it was. From what he understood, people were supposed to be adaptable, especially those who would become criminals, but no.

The only thing that most of the people in the Rehabilitation Center had in common was that most of them would be dead before their tenth birthday, and even fewer would make it to their teens. 

It also, probably, helped that he was one of the few kids who learned how to talk. That alone made him more educated than three quarters of the kids trapped in these walls. On the other hand, he had only been able to pick up talking by listening in on Agents and Guards conversations that he shouldn’t have heard. 

Because of that, he spoke differently than the other kids that could talk. Some of the older ones tried to teach the younger ones, he had been one of them, but they never actually were able to spend much time with any child without someone getting suspicious. Every hour, minute, and second were closely monitored for the first ten or so years. 

There was only one thing that every single child here knew by heart. Their number. He pitied the younger ones, and the children that would come after they were gone. It was extremely annoying trying to learn your number when you couldn't even count. But, even if most of them couldn't say it, they knew when someone was referring to them by their number. 

When he was finally left alone, he allowed his head to fall forwards onto the metal table with a light thunk. One day, he promised himself, he would figure out why the Guards were so obsessed with burning the whip marks. 

He had, in a way, been extremely lucky. Even if he was still chained down, he would probably still be able to move. It would hurt, but nothing was broken, and the burns would heal, but he had worse. A lot worse.

They were taking it easy on him, he supposed, because everyone knew that he had a meeting tomorrow. It was the talk of the center, so to speak. He was the oldest person that didn’t work in the center out of the seven hundred current residence. Seven hundred children were locked away by society, and left to rot.

The sad thing was, he knew that there were bigger, crueler Rehabilitation Centers out there. From what he understood, this one was fairly small compared to most, and unless something big happened, Valos would be shut down.

On one hand, that was a good thing. It meant that no more children would be raised like he was. On the other… 

The current children would most likely be left to rot, probably locked in here, and just left to starve or they would burn down the building with the other kids still inside.

If he didn’t make a good impression, he knew that something would happen to the kids, and he really didn’t want to think about what would happen if he failed. Then again, he would be dead, so he supposed it didn’t exactly matter.   
There really wasn’t much he could actually do though. He would be lucky if he survived the week. He didn’t really have the time to think about everyone else. 

Then again, it wasn’t exactly in his nature to not care. He wasn’t entirely sure why that hadn't been programmed out of him, like rebellion and shame had been years ago. He supposed it was probably because someone somewhere had a use for it. Or, more likely, he was simply an experiment. Everyone knew how much the government spent on studying emotions. He had overheard several conversations, even more than usual the last month or so, about someone trying to genetically alter human minds to only feel certain emotions.

It would be interesting to think about, but it was also cruel. The nice part of him cringed at the thought of creating Perfect Humans. As of right now, they were simply thoughts, but soon enough, they would be more than that. 

It was only a matter of time before the best minds in the world figured out whatever it was that currently stopped their plans. When that day came, he hoped he would already be dead. True Humans would be replaced by the Perfect, and somehow, someway, the things that made humans human would be slowly replaced.

He knew most people were excited about it, but he wasn’t moronic. He had a bad feeling he knew exactly what would happen once the Perfect Human's realized that they were superior to their predecessors. Even if they didn’t call for the death of all normal humans, someone would once there was a chance for something better to come from it.

That said, once the Perfect Humans came about, he wouldn’t be surprised if progress simply stopped. Unless you realized that you were flawed, you couldn't try and fix it. Then again, he could just be biased against the thought because everything he had overheard about them unnerved him out. 

There was no outward sign of a difference, or at least, there wasn’t supposed to be. Someone would have to watch carefully if they wanted to actually be able to tell them apart. 

He knew that there were several hundred Partial Human's running around as well. They were the failed experiments that the public knew about. 

He blew out a breath, it was strange that he knew as much as he did. Then again, when the only talking you hear is from Agents complaining, well, he knew it made sense in a twisted way. 

His back stung and burned in places, but he was used to it. His face had long since dried, and if he was lucky, he would be able to move as soon as dawn broke. He needed to figure out how he was going to be able to impress the councilman. He doubted the man would know or care that he could speak. He was clever enough, he supposed, but he wasn’t sure if he should show it off. 

That said, he wasn’t entirely sure how he wanted the meeting to go. If it went well, then great, he would be able to finally see the outside world. If not, no more fighting for an existence that just exhausted him. Both options appealed to different parts of him. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew that unless he made up his mind, he wouldn’t go anywhere. 

It boiled down to if he wanted to keep fighting or not. 

Most of him was just tired. Most of him wanted to just give up and let himself rest. A little part of him, no more than a sliver of his consciousness, didn’t. There were people who might need his attention. There were things he could do that he didn’t even know about. He could live, for once, instead of just existing. He could finally see the world, and learn from it. 

It was more than he had ever dared to hope for, but for once, he couldn't help it. The thought of finally being able to live was…

He knew the chance of actually seeing the outside world, of getting to visit Vashem, the city closest to Valos Rehabilitation Center, was a moronic dream. He never knew if he was going to survive a week, let alone a month or longer. Now, he was close to finally getting out of here, either in a box or without being a prisoner.

That made him pause. He had never known a world outside of the closely monitored Valos. He didn’t know what he would need in order to survive in the actual world. For that matter, he knew very little about the everyday life of those who lived outside. He didn’t know how they survived, or how the Future Picture was able to gage how people were living up to their true potential. 

It was a strange thought, one he had always dismissed. Why would he care about how the outside world got food when he had been starved for a week, simply to see if his body would finally give out? Why would he care how they learned to talk, or wonder if only those in the One Nation Government could, when he tried to prevent the death of yet another child? 

He didn’t have the luxury of caring about others when he was being forced to fight the other older ones, or had to worry about finally losing himself in another Rehabilitation Class, or wonder if that last beating was all he could finally take. He may not have spent much time wondering about the outside, but he had been busy inside. 

He didn’t regret it. How could he? Even though his body was screaming at him, if he hadn't taken this, then that little one would have had to. Hopefully, they would let her off easy. He doubted that he would ever see her again though. It simply wasn’t logical. Even if she did live through the night, he would be gone in the morning anyway. He would never see any of them again.

That was a strange thought. 

Something tightened in his stomach, and he raised an eyebrow. He didn’t understand why his heart seemed to clench, but he didn’t really have the energy to care about anything other than resting. 

He hoped that they would leave him to recover for the night, but he wasn’t holding his breath. If he looked like he was sleeping, sometimes a Guard would come back in here and bring in the whip again, or another fire device to wake him up. It was rare that he was actually left alone, but that didn’t mean much.

He knew that he was as sick of them as they were of him. The less that they had to interact before he went to his meeting, the better for all of them. 

That said, he was fairly certain that each of the people that worked in this part of the Center knew him by look, and probably by number. After all, they spent more time looking at his back than he did, and he knew that on his right shoulder blade, the only part of his body that wasn’t completely scarred, there was a black and white checkered pattern that had his a number in each of the nine squares. 

He wasn’t sure why they had started this branding process, but he had learned the number early, and he, like many of the other residence, hated showing it. Not that there was any way to actually hide it. Every week, half of them got their heads shaved. The next week, it was the other half's turns. His hair was getting longer, seeing at it had been just over two weeks since it was cut last. Clothing was also something that most were not allowed. 

Some of the kids were allowed to have baggy robes that hung off the shoulder unless you were very careful. Grey only. Others, like him who got in trouble, were not allowed anything more than a set of underclothes. It was humiliating to show off his emasculated form, but very few were better off than he, at least in build. He was short, probably due to all his time in the Box of Solitude as a child, and his bones were only covered by a thin layer of skin. 

He hated how he looked, but knew better than to actually say anything about it. The more someone brought attention to themselves, the worse life became. 

If he was lucky, he would be allowed a robe tomorrow, if only because they knew it would irritate his back. 

His eyes started closing, and he turned his neck slightly, stretching the bleeding skin so that he wouldn’t suffocate, and lost himself to the blackness he had been waiting for. For a little while, at least, he wouldn’t hurt.


	3. Chapter 2

Everything was stiff and sore when he finally fought his way back to wakefulness. It was almost a shock going from drifting to trying not to scream in agony. He took a deep, carefully measured breath, yelling at himself mentally for being such a weakling. He was being pitiful, and that wasn’t going to help anything. 

The feel of warming metal against his chest gave him pause. Why was he…

It took a few moments for him to wake up, shoving down the panic. He had woke up in more pain than he was expecting, but that didn’t mean anyone was going to hurt him this morning. For that matter, he wasn’t sure they had time.

His eyes widened slightly. He had a meeting with a councilman today to decide his fate. He wasn’t sure how he was going to be able to move at this point, but he would need to be able to not only walk, but seem presentable. He straightened his neck, wincing slightly as it pulled on the mess of scabs he was sure his back was. 

Until someone came to let him loose, though, he was stuck here. Dread pulled in his stomach. They wouldn’t leave him here for his meeting, would they? 

A bitter laugh tried to come out of his dry, scratchy throat, coming out as more of a cough than anything. Of course they would. They wanted him dead.

After an hour or so, the sound of the door opening outside of his eyesight was almost enough to make him sigh in relief. Four sets of hands started pulling at his bindings, letting him loose. The chain around his neck, though was staying apparently. 

He wondered if it was because the councilman feared for his safety instead from him of all people. Seeing as he was more being dragged than actually walking, he somehow doubted that he would be able to cause too much trouble.

A part of him wondered if that scene from the day before, of the little one getting hurt by a Guard was staged just so he wouldn’t be able to do anything today. For all he knew, a beating a few hours before was standard procedure for all of those about to meet with someone important. 

Then again, even if it was, it wouldn’t matter much. His mind was slightly hazy, and he felt like he was freezing. He knew what that meant. He had an infection of some kind, which was strange. Usually, when they burned the whip marks, he didn’t get infections of any kind. 

Maybe there was something on the whip this time, a part of his mind wondered. He mentally snorted. That was moronic. They may have wanted him dead, but they most likely didn’t want to poison him. Humans didn’t do anything that they didn’t gain something from, and getting him sick didn’t serve any purpose. 

Unless, of course, someone didn’t want him to go to the meeting. Then, maybe. One didn’t ignore summons from the council unless they wanted to be killed. He wasn’t moronic enough to not go to the meeting though, even if he felt horrible. 

It just made his eyes narrow, and his teeth grit. He would go to this meeting. This was the most important thing he would do in his, rather short if he failed, lifetime. He could do this. It wasn’t guaranteed in any way that this would go his way, but if he didn't try, then he would die. The chance that he would live out the week was small, but it was enough to make sure that he tried his hardest to survive.

He was led to an area on the other side of the center, closer to the infant storeroom than to the part he was allowed in. The hallway was still the same dull white as the rest of the building, and in a way, it was soothing that even this close to such an important time, certain things remained unchanging.

They stopped at a door that didn’t look any different than any of the others, but that didn’t mean much, he supposed. For some reason, he really wished he had a robe at this point, if only so he could draw it closed around himself to hopefully stop the shivering. 

His mouth was dry, and his mind was far from sharp, but he was still pulled inside by the chain around his neck. He blinked a few times, trying to take in everything. The walls weren't white, or red, or grey. He wasn’t sure what they were called, but it was rich in color, and they were draped with something even more magnificent. Everything in this room screamed wealth, unlike the rest of the building. 

It was so strange seeing something that was so different than what he was used to. The colors were confusing enough. That didn’t say anything about the man sitting in a high backed chair that was the same color as the walls. Fire destroyed the logs in the fireplace, crackling happily, trying to steal his attention from the man in front of him.

He assumed that this was the councilman. He was a tall man, easily a head or more taller than he. His hair was long, tied behind his neck, and more the color of a locked room with no light than grey. He had a thick mustache, and his eyes seemed to sparkle in the fire's light. 

Was this what everyone on the outside looked like, all strange colors and confusing? 

"This is Ward," he looked down at the folder in his lap, "907254179?" He asked.

He nodded, even though the councilman was looking at the guards instead of him. "Yes sir. Pris- I mean Ward 907254179 is one of the more difficult people in our care. We strongly suggest that allowing him access to the outside world is a thought that should be abandoned. He is nothing more than a troublemaker who-"

"But he is still alive, Guard Monahan, which is more than I can say for most of those in your care. That alone proves his strength. Everything else won't matter. Besides, it's been a while since a student of the center has been released. The public will like this." The councilman interrupted, glancing up at them before looking over at him. "Can he speak?"

The guards shook their heads. He considered saying something, and letting them know that, in fact, he was smarter than they thought, but stayed silent when he saw the councilman nod.

"Good, that means he will be unable to tell anyone any secrets he might have overheard. He's a perfect little figurehead of what can happen to those who successfully finish the rehabilitation program. The people want some kind of good news, especially after Governor Vardon's own child was said to be a thief like this one. It will give them hope, and thus get them more comfortable with our laws once again." The man glanced away for a moment, before meeting the eyes of the Agent that watched over the Guards. "Sector V is already one of the least productive. Things should change soon, or we will have to step in. Now, give the boy to my second, and we will be leaving." 

His chain was handed over to another man, this one with hair the color of blood, who had tisked when he had come into the room. He kept his head down as he was escorted out of the room. 

The red haired man led him towards a wing he had never entered before, closer to the walls of the Valos, and stopped in a room with a pile of clothing stacked neatly on a chair, as well as a scroll that would register him as an official member of society. All he had to do was pick a name from the prewritten list, and he would be judged by the Future Picture once more. If all was well, he would be freed within the hour. 

"Well?" The red haired man snapped, "What are you waiting for? Get dressed." 

He turned towards the chair so that the other couldn't see him, and felt his eyes roll. He picked up the first piece of clothing, a tunic, he guessed, like the guards wore. He slid it over his head, struggling with the holes on the sides for a second, before his brain kicked in. They must be the places where the arms went. He guessed so anyway. He hoped that the other man would tell him if he did something wrong, or moronic, but wasn’t exactly counting on it. 

The next were a pair of trousers that fit loosely around his waist. They were the same color as the councilman's hair, the color of a lightless room. He wasn’t sure what to call the color of the shirt, light and rich, he guessed, were the closest he could come to describing the color. 

Once the pieces were in place, the red haired man came over and fussed with something, a heavy piece of material that draped over his shoulders held in place by small pins shaped strangely. 

"I will say the names on the list, and when I come to one you like, nod or something. Alright?" He cautiously let his head fall forward, just an inch or so, but it seemed to be good enough for the other. "Seeing as you are a Ward, your family name is now Ward. There is no way around that. Now, let's see, Waite Siraj Ward?" 

He scrunched up his nose, and the other nodded back. 

"I agree, it’s a more respectable name than someone like you would know what to do with. Rochus Perkin Ward? Jerek Malin Ward? Cashel Jolun Ward? Naldo-" He was nodding. He liked that name. 

"You like the name Naldo?" A shake of his head, "No? Cashel?" 

Yes, he could live with that name. It was much better than Rochus or Naldo, at least.

"Hm, Cashel Jolun Ward? It's not the most proper name, you should know." Cashel simply shrugged. He had never cared what other people thought of him before, why would he start now? "Very well, Cashel. If that is your choice."

The red haired man leaned over the paper, and scribbled down something. "My name is Vilmos Helmut, I am the second of Councilman Vladislav. Your home will be in Sector V, as it is your birthplace, and your governor is a man named Vardon. You will be assigned a job in Sector V, and you will live out your life working in the job that you will grow to love. Each job is picked by the Job Picture, a less powerful version of the Future Picture. We will scan you once we get back to the compound. You will, most likely, reside with either Councilman Vladislav or Governor Vardon until you are scanned. Do you understand?"

Cashel nodded. He wasn’t idiotic, and he felt slightly offended that they thought that just because he couldn't talk, he was a simpleton. Which was just moronic, of course. He was worth more than that. Hopefully.

Now, he had a name, a powerful name that was all his, and just felt right. He knew that with his name came a brand new world that would open up to him. This was just the beginning, and even though he wasn’t sure about much, he knew that he would be alright.

Because, now, he had a name. Now he wasn’t Prisoner 907254179. Now, he was simply Cashel Ward. He had never been Cashel before, but he had a feeling he would like it. 

 

~

 

Everything around him was so loud and strange, that he was having trouble deciding where to look first. He didn’t know what most of the things were, and didn’t have a way to find out, but that didn’t stop it from being interesting to see. 

There were so many people, and they all looked so different. Some were short, some were tall, some were thin, and some were round. It was strange, in a weird way, how excited he was adding so many people to his memory. He would probably never see them again, either. How strange a thought was that? He had never bothered learning the numbers of those surrounding him, as he knew most would end up dead soon, but he had always known them by look. From the youngest child, trying to crawl through the building, to the older ones, he knew the day he had first seen each of them. Now, though, he would be just a name in a sea of names. 

And to think, he was finally free…

It was so bright, that had been his first thought. He had never been outside before, and he had to shade his eyes with his hand as his eyes tried to adjust to light that wasn’t artificial for once. He knew that he should have been terrified, but he wasn’t. He just wanted to know more. Luckily for him, Vilmos Helmut seemed resigned to giving a speech that included the number of people in the sector (six thousand, seven hundred, ninety three, including him at the moment), how Sector V was different than the other Sectors, how Sector V produced most of the food for the other Sectors, and so on. According to Vilmos Helmut, some of the people from the other Sectors called this the Agricultural Sector, but most called it Sector Village, because of how it was arranged. 

Everyone knew their jobs, and worked together to make Sector V the most functional that it could be. There had apparently been only seventy people released in the last four hundred or so years from Valos Rehabilitation Center, and he should feel extremely lucky that he was given the honor of a name, after being nameless for so long. 

The ride to the grounds was long and full of life that he couldn't begin to describe. He really wanted to get his hand on something that would help him better understand the world around him, but knew better than to ask.

By the time they stopped in a garden, or at least that was what Vilmos Helmut called it, his brain hurt from all the information he tried to digest. Bright, rich colors were everywhere, and if he had forgotten himself, he would have been asking his reluctant guide what everything was. 

They mentioned something about seeing a doctor later, but he was too busy being dragged, this time by his arm, as the chain around his neck had finally been released, towards a large building. A part of Cashel wanted to fight, and run away. He didn’t want to be trapped inside again, but he knew that he had to follow where they led, at least for now. He knew that he would be left alone soon enough, and he could go back outside, and bask in the warmth. 

For now, though, he had to be on his best behavior, and by that, he meant he had to do nothing that he didn’t have permission to do. Most of him knew, but didn’t want to admit, that the moment he messed up, he would most likely be thrown back in Valos. 

Now that he had a taste of freedom, he wasn’t sure he could go back without going insane. Now that he knew what life could be like outside of the white walls, he knew that his mind wouldn’t be able to cope with being deprived of the sights, sounds, and smells of this world. 

The door closed behind him with a heavy clap, and he wasn’t entirely sure where he was being led. His hand clenched by his side as he pushed down the panic. He could do this. He had to. If he lost his cool now, they would probably pack him back into the cart, and his first glimpse would be his last. 

He was led to a room, and turned to his guide in confusion. The room was large, at least three times the size of his cell, with a soft looking bed the same color as his tunic, and white, a softer more pure white than he had ever seen in the center. 

"I hope you don’t mind Icy blue and white. It was either this, or the emerald green and gold room. I don’t think the councilman will mind if you would rather stay in the other room, Cashel." The red head had loosened up a lot since they left the center, and it probably helped that they rode separately from the councilman. 

He was sure that the other had better things to do, and as soon as Cashel willingly walked into the room, Vilmos bowed lightly to him, before turning to leave. He stopped by the door, and turned to face Cashel. "The councilman would prefer if you stayed in here and rested. As soon as morning comes, which is usually later than usual, the councilman will write your name in the Job Picture, and hopefully, we will be able to set you up with what you will need to survive. After that, though, you will be on your own as a member of Sector V. Goodnight, Cashel." 

And with that, he was left alone.


	4. Chapter 3

Cashel woke with warmth on his face. The strange sensation was just enough to pull him out of his slumber. It took him a moment to realize that the previous day wasn’t a dream. He was actually free, and more than that, he had a name.

A part of him went to sleep the night before, sure that he would wake up back in his cell, but instead, he woke to the sunlight warming his features. Everything was so strange. He wasn’t sure what most of the things in the room were, and didn’t want to risk asking. 

He had been awake as dawn's first rays kissed his face. No one had come in the room yet, and the only interaction he had was when a servant of the Councilman came knocked and asked if he wished to bath that morning. 

Clearly, he had agreed, and felt far more relaxed than he probably should. He may not have understood many things in this strange new world, but he was inventive enough to be able to figure out a few things. 

The servant was very kind, concise, and quiet, which was strange in its own way. From what he had seen so far, everyone outside the Center was more lively, but not that man. The collar around his neck probably told more than Cashel was able to understand by this point. 

That said, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do now. He had so many things he wanted to do, only a few could he actually name, and he didn’t want to waste even a single minute. But, he had been asked to stay in the room. 

He was dressed in something called a mint green, similar to the day before but more green instead of blue apparently, with black, that was what the color was called, trousers instead of charcoal. He had tried not to ask many questions, not that anyone would have understood even if he did. Luckily, the servant asked what colors he would prefer to wear for the day. He really liked the green, even if he was probably going to be partial to blue for the rest of his life. Green was vibrant and reminded him of life, so different than anything he was used to seeing. 

He didn’t want to cause a fuss, but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do now. For the last hour or so, he had just been sitting with his feet tucked under him on the soft bed. He really liked that bed. The sheets were cool, the blankets warm, and the pillows soft. The color was also relaxing. He knew that once he could, he would find a way to decorate his room at his residence like this. The white walls pulled out in certain places with enough room for folded clothing. 

Most of him wanted to explore the room more thoroughly than he had the night before, but he didn’t want to seem ungrateful or rude, so he stayed still, sitting in a patch of sunlight and letting it warm him up. 

He really did like most of the things in this world. He hadn't woke up screaming for once, which was nice. He had always had trouble sleeping, which was one of several worries that he had before falling asleep the previous night. He had assumed that they would very carefully, keep him out of the way. After all, one of the most common phrases he had heard back in Valos, was 'Out of Sight, out of mind.' 

A part of him wanted to assume that wouldn’t be what he was to the rest of the world, but the guards had never been shy about telling him, or any child, that they were thrown un here because they were useless and worthiness, and no one wanted little thieves or whatever else. 

He was used to being either ignored or looked over, which was fine. The only time he had ever had any type of attention from the workers in Valos was when he got in trouble. He wasn’t sure what they would do here if he screwed up in any way. He really hoped that someone would sit him down and give him a list of things that were allowed or not allowed. Until they did, he wouldn’t know the rules, but he didn’t think that would have made much of a difference. 

After sleeping, he knew for sure that he wouldn’t speak to anyone here, and not because he wanted them to think he was lacking a brain, but because he didn’t know what was allowed and what wasn’t. Until the rules were memorized, he would stay quiet. He couldn't help but think that being thought of as idiotic was better than accidently offending someone. 

Finally, the door opened, and he let his head fall forward, but didn’t move. Unless he had permission, it was better to stay still, wasn’t it? Even if it wasn’t, how would he know? He had a bad feeling that he would be stumbling around in mental darkness until he treaded over a rule and got in trouble for it. He could only hope that his mistakes wouldn’t get him thrown back into Valos. 

He really, really didn’t want to go back. 

Luckily, it wasn’t the governor or the councilman, but the redheaded second of the councilman, Vilmos Helmut who seemed much more relaxed than he did the night before. 

"Good morning, Cashel. I hope you slept well." Vilmos told him, bowing slightly. Cashel allowed his head to fall forward in a bit of a bow. "It's time for your meeting with the councilman. Are you ready?"

Cashel stood slowly, shrugging as he did so. He would, hopefully, get a job through the Job Picture, but that didn’t mean much. If there were no empty positions in whatever job was going to be suggested, he wasn’t sure what he would do. 

That said, as he walked down the winding halls, he wasn’t sure what all would happen, and figured that it would be best to simply take everything as it came, rather than try and prepare. He wouldn’t be able to do much anyway, even if he wanted to. All he could do was follow Vilmos Helmut and hope that the other had at least a vague idea what he was going to be forced to do that say. He wasn’t holding his breath though.

He knew that his ability to adapt would be the only thing that would be able to get him through this transition, but that didn’t mean that was what he wanted He wanted to just know where this was going, instead of having to rely on others to help him in one way or another. 

They stopped at a more luxurious door that was lined with what he guessed was fur of some kind, silky white and longer than his hand. It was so strange. He had never seen anyone line a door with fur, but that didn’t exactly mean anything. For all he knew, fur doors had a special, silly meaning that he just wasn’t clued in for.

Vilmos didn’t seem bothered a bit as he knocked on the wood to the side of the door. They were beckoned to enter, and Cashel thought he was going to fall over. The entire room was filled with statue. Of what, he wasn’t sure, they were all different though, and Councilman Vladislav looked especially proud. He was sure it was an impressive collection , but it would be more interesting if he knew what at least one of the things were. 

It was nice though, he thought looking at the small golden orb that rested on a gold and silver stand on the Councilman's desk. He assumed that was the Job Picture, but he didn’t know. Vilmos said several things, but Cashel wasn’t listening. His mind was stuck thinking about what the other would see. He wasn’t sure what kind of job he would like, but that didn’t stop it from being something that hopefully would include working with ones hands. He kind of liked that idea in a strange, disorienting way. 

He had never bothered thinking about a job, as he assumed he would be dead long before he was finally allowed out of the center. Building things, like this place, seemed both hard and not that rewarding, but he was sure that they would find somewhere to put him, if only to get him out of here as soon as they could. He hoped that they would give him everything he needed to be able to survive, but he wasn’t holding his breath. He was much too old to even think about trusting people with doing what they said. If people could break their word, or even their promises, they would. Not that he blamed anyone. It was just a part of society that he didn’t understand and had always wished that he did. For that matter, he had a lot of things he had wished for as a child, and the few that actually came true were nothing compared to what he had dreamed about, or anything like that. 

Vilmos said something that he couldn't understand, his voice changing to a thick, heavy accent that was strange, but somehow familiar. Councilman Vladislav answered in the same strange language. He wasn’t sure if they were speaking in that language to keep him from understanding what was being said, or if they had simply gotten in the habit of it. 

He had a feeling it was both. Cashel kept his head down, and waited patiently for them to finish discussing whatever it was that they were talking about. He looked at the different shapes and colors of the decorations stuffed into the room, and guessed that Vladislav really liked whatever they were called. He wasn’t even sure how to describe the bright, eye watering colors that cloaked the room. He wasn’t sure he wanted to either. 

They spoke for several minutes, fire crackling happily beside them, and he shifted his feet to make sure that he was standing in the sun. He had glanced up a couple of times before, but it always made his eyes hurt. He had learned the hard way to close his eyes if he wanted to feel the warmth on his face. He knew that he would soon be addicted to the heat, and he wasn’t even sure he minded. How could he when it felt so nice? 

How he had lived before he was allowed in the sun, he wasn’t sure. It may not have made much sense, but he didn’t mind, nothing here did. Nothing outside of Valos seemed to be even slightly logical. Then again, maybe logic was different out here. He inwardly scoffed. Of course it was. How could it not be?

The pieces of new items and information swirled around his head in a hazy tornado, and his stomach clenched. He didn’t want to interrupt them, but he also knew that if things changed any quicker, he would be lost. That said, he didn’t want to take care of anything without understand what he was going to have to do. He knew that as soon as the Job Picture judged him, he would be able to fake a normal life. Maybe he wouldn’t tell anyone where he was from. Maybe, he would let them make assumptions that would make him laugh inside.

That was alright though. Being underestimated was good thing. No one would expect him to be anything other than simpleminded, and he, for one, had no problem with that expectation. 

 

Slowly, Councilman Vladislav leaned over the glowing orb, before looking up and watching Cashel for a moment. "Well gentleman, here we go." Then he looked back down, cleared his throat, before speaking in clear concise words. "Cashel Jolun Ward."

A little thrill went through his body at the words. It was still such a novel idea, having a name. The little orb whorled around, whizzing in a circle, before stopping. Councilman Vladislav's eyebrows rose. 

Clearly, he saw something that they didn’t, but that was how the orb worked, he supposed. Cashel looked away after a moment of silence echoed in the room. What? What had the man been shown? Why was he still quiet? Was that a good thing? Or a sign that his first day of freedom was also his last? His heart pounded his blood loudly behind his ears. 

He didn’t want to go back. He couldn't go back. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the councilman snorted loudly. Vilmos tapped his foot impatiently on the hard wood ground. Cashel, on the other hand, felt like his heart was trying to beat out of his chest. 

Vladislav's dark eyes met his own, this time somehow different than the other times. It seemed like, for once, the man was looking at him rather than through him. What did the other man see? What was so interesting that made the man want to finally see through every mask he had thrown up?

"That was unexpected." The councilman told him, leaning back and crossing his hands together on the desk. "I must say, I wasn’t expecting this. You are more than you appear to be, are you not?" The question wasn’t really a question, but more of a statement that was hidden in a question for both of their own goods. 

Neither said a word for a moment as they stared at each other, before Vilmos broke the silence with a quiet huff. "Well?" 

"You are too impatient for your own good, Master Helmut. Everything comes when it comes, be they good or bad things." Councilman Vladislav told his second. "In this case, it’s a matter of perspective. The young Ward is going to be interning with Osred."

Vilmos choked on air. "Osred? Osred Freine? That Osred? No offence intended," He cleared his throat, "but Master Freine will eat him alive, if the public doesn’t kill him first." 

Cashel's breathing calmed slightly. From the sound of it, they weren't locking him back up, at the very least. He didn’t know exactly what they were talking about, but while Vilmos looked like he was going to his execution, Councilman Vladislav looked, dare he think, excited. 

Whatever was going to happen, Cashel knew that if he was going to be able to survive, he would need to treat this new challenge as a new thing to adapt to, or he would probably drown before he had a chance to prove himself. 

"Yes, Master Helmut," Vladislav said, sounding like he was laughing at his second without being rude. "That Osred. If anyone knows what that old bat is capable of, it would be me. He was… well, why don’t you leave us? I will take care of things from here."

Vilmos clearly didn’t want to leave, but bowed deeply to his employer. "Very well. I will be gathering the weekly reports on the newest staff member then."

With that, the red head backed out of the room, throwing a look of sympathy at Cashel.

Once the heavy door closed behind him, Vladislav's attention focused back on Cashel. "I'm sure you have questions, the first of which is probably what job will you use to support yourself in Sector V. Allow me to inform you. Osred Freine is a builder, the best in not only Sector V, one of the best in the One Nation. He, because of this, is very particular about the jobs he takes, traveling to all of the Sectors in hopes of creating architecture that will be remembered for the rest of history. He builds strongholds, not simply buildings. Traps and tricks are his specialties. Anything built by Osred is considered unbreakable. But," the other sighed lightly. "he has a bit of a reputation, you see. He's well…" The councilman trailed off, unsure of exactly how to describe the other man. 

He shook himself out of it, and Cashel simply watched, eyes glittering in amusement. That didn’t sound so bad. Building things was one of the thousands of things he never considered doing with his life, but breathing, or having a job were on the list as well, so he supposed that it wasn’t a good idea to listen to it. 

That said, he was curious about why Vilmos seemed so against his employment, but he figured that if he saw the red head again, he would be told. 

"Oh, and you should probably know, while the Job Picture only shows what job you would do the best with, but also the possibility of what you are going to do with said job. And Master Ward? I would go left, if I were you, when the time comes, of course." Councilman Vladislav straightened slightly and rolled his shoulders. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have an estate to run, and you have rest to catch up on. I will contact your teacher this evening, and he will most likely be here by tomorrow, probably in time for the evening meal if I know the man and his stomach at all. You may do whatever it is that you wish, as long as you respect the door that are locked. Everywhere else in the estate is free to roam. Please be at the main meals. One of the people that work here will find you when it is time for food. Now, you may leave." 

Cashel had a feeling that the last statement was less of a request, and more of an order. He didn’t mind though. It was his first time to be able to find out about the world outside Valos Rehabilitation Center, and he was going to make the most of it. If he could, he would listen for anything specifically mentioning Osred Freine. 

With some luck, he would be able to actually find out about the man, subtly and carefully, so that he wouldn’t be surprised. And if he spent most of the afternoon sleeping in the warmth of the sun with cool grass under him, no one was around to judge. 

 

The next afternoon came around quicker than he expected. The previous day had been unbelievable. He had been left alone, but no one had any problems with him wandering the gardens. In fact, the gardener had been more than happy to tell him about all sorts of plants and how to take care of them. It was extremely interesting, even if the conversation had been one sided. The gardener didn’t mind that Cashel didn’t speak, in fact, he just seemed happy enough that someone was as interested in the plants as he was. 

He had also slept until dusk. It was strange being woken gently so that he could dine on strange, flavorful, dishes that he couldn't name even if his life depended on it. He had spent a lot of time today simply soaking in warm water and relaxing. He had never felt so indulgent in his life.

Not that he would be able to do nothing for very long without getting jittery, but being able to relax after spending so much time stressing about everything was nice. He was eating a strange purple, another color!, dish. It was apparently made like some kind of noodle, whatever that was, except it was a plant that was filled with water and seasoned lightly. They had called it Adrionian Purple, which didn’t mean much to him.

Though, he did now know that Adriorian's were the official name of those who lived in Sector A, and how they were more known for their industrial creations than food. He had also learned that the One Council was made of 26 people, each were born for the position, and each one governed over a single Sector, and only answered to the rest of the Council. The Governor, on the other hand, had to answer not only to the other Governors, but to the councilman that was responsible for whatever Sector they were in charge of. They, like the One Council, were born for the position. 

One interesting thing though, was that while they were identified at birth, they were often hunted and killed before they grew up. Some people would do anything to keep their power, and even instructed their Agents to kill the children at birth, if not to have them locked away in a center. 

Councilman Vladislav wasn’t like that though, he was long past ready for his replacement to finally come into the world. He wasn’t old, not by their standards, but he was weary. 

He knew the only reason he had heard most of what he had was because everyone thought he was incompetent, and thus, no one would believe him, even if he had been able to talk. What they didn’t know was that he was not only making a note of everything he was hearing, but locking it into his memory. He wasn’t about to forget anything that he had been taught, and, while he didn’t want to bring anything to light, he also didn’t want to be unprepared. If someone developed a grudge against him, he wanted to be able to fight back, both physically and with knowledge. If there was one thing he enjoyed doing over the past day, it was learning as much as he could. 

There was little chance of it ever being relevant, but that didn’t mean that it would never be useful. There was no such thing as useless information in the right hands. That’s what he heard one of the workers say to another. It was as a joke, he knew, but every word rang true. 

He took another slow bite of his food, savoring the refreshing taste. Yes, he could get used to this kind of life, but he wouldn’t. He would be bored within a week, which was never a good thing. There was only so much one could do with people thinking you were too dim-witted, another phrase he had learned, to understand anything. 

The only people that spoke to him without speaking both slowly and trying to use small worlds were the gardener and the councilman. He wished that there was a way to inform them that using smaller words confused him more than anything else. He had learned how to talk by listening to Guards and Agents giving their reports in rooms that were supposed to be locked away from everyone else, or hearing them speak to those more important than they were. As it was, most people that he had heard spoke in the same cool, detached, proper manner. That wasn’t to say that he didn’t know any smaller words, but since he heard them less often, he was unsure of most of their meanings.

Instead, he had been trying to expand his vocabulary to try and sound more… normal. Something else that had been strange was that not everyone spoke the same way. Some of them spoke the language he had hear Councilman Vladislav and Vilmos Helmut speaking the day before. Others spoke in a more harsh sounding language. Apparently, each Sector had their own language, as well as a common language that everyone in the government spoke. He didn’t understand Vedettai, the language of Sector V, at all. He had learned Common instead. He had learned a few words in Vedettai, as well as a single word in Rudellia, the language that the gardener spoke from Sector R, which was Ruxulos, or unmotivated. Ruxulos was an insult, apparently, one that the gardener used often to describe the people that worked in the estate. 

That said, it was almost funny how everyone worked together, or should he say, how they ignored the existence of everyone that didn’t do the same thing that they did. It was amusing how no one interacted, which lead to simple chores being done several times. 

But, he wasn’t going to say anything about it. If they wanted to waste their own time, than who was he to deny them that? He had only been here a day, and if what they had worked for them, then it worked for them. 

About half way through the meal, once the desert had been brought out, the doors opened with a bang. Cashel knew he wasn’t the only one who jumped. The strange thing was, no one was in the doorway. His eyes told him that there was no one there, but his ears said something else. 

He blinked several times, trying to figure out what was going on. 

Someone was behind him. He could feel breath on his neck, and hear gasping breath. He mentally counted to five, before letting himself slide down the chair onto the floor. It was undignified, but he couldn't care less at this point. Until he knew if that person was safe or not, he would react as if it was yet another threat on his life. 

A loud laugh made him stop. There was something about this whole situation that didn’t make sense. But what? 

Blood spilt down the chair where the Councilman sat. At this point, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to think. He doubted anyone would actually try and assassinate the Councilmember, but at the same time, if this was a joke, it was a really bad one. 

The whole room was plunged into darkness as a scream echoed through the building. He crawled over to where the councilman was, and pulled him under the table where it was slightly safer. He brought a hand up to the man's neck, and grimaced. Vladislav's head was mostly off his neck. The other was dead. 

Cashel didn’t allow himself to freeze or more would die. He really didn’t want to live through twenty years of the Rehabilitation Center, just to be killed on his first full day out of the Center. 

He patted down the body, trying to find something, anything he could use to protect himself. Once again, the man proved to be useless. No weapons at all. No knives, no fire. Nothing. 

He blinked several times, adjusting his eyes once more to the darkness. Someone would need more than just that to finally pull one over on him. The sound of frantic feet around the room was distracting, but he shoved it out of his head, trying to remember the breathing pattern of the person that had been standing behind him. 

His blood was beating loudly behind his ears, but he didn’t have time for anything else. He searched subconsciously for the same sound he had heard earlier. It would be easier to avoid the person if he knew where they were. 

By the time he had narrowed down the sounds and finally locked onto the breathing pattern, he had to roll away. The person was standing behind him, or had been. He had ducked under the table when the lights were still on, but that didn’t mean that the other didn’t know where he was. He had to keep moving. Staying still meant staying dead. 

"Nice try, but you're decades to early to get away from me, Sleviz." Someone, a woman if he guessed right, whispered. Cashel shoved back the panic that tried to cloud his mind. He may not have a weapon, but he had grown up having to fight others for the amusement of the Agents and Guards. He could defend himself. 

From the wound he had felt on the Councilman, the killer did have a knife, at least, on him. Knives meant that this person was good at close ranged attacks, but she could probably throw them fairly well too. 

He looked around him, taking in the dark shapes of the vases, pedestals, looking for anything that he could use as a weapon. He forced himself up, cursing in his head. 

He tripped over another body, this one probably of the cook, a rounded woman from Sector T. He didn’t hit the floor. He caught himself, or should he say, a woman caught him. 

"Too late, Sleviz." She whispered again, bringing her hand towards his neck. He panicked, glancing around wildly. He got out of her way, but not fast enough. Blood dripped down from his neck, but it wasn’t deep enough to kill him instantly. His mind raced, before he heard it.

"Cashel." Vilmos whispered. Something flew through the air. He reached up, catching a rounded blade, perfect for killing. . The chain was wrapped around the handle tightly, but with a slight flick of his wrist, the chains moved down a bit. 

He had no idea what this was supposed to be, but then again, he didn’t know what most of the stuff in this world were. That didn’t stop him though, it couldn't. He rushed forward at the woman, carefully holding onto the wooden handle with one hand, while grabbing the end of the chain with the other. 

His movements were sloppy, and normally, he would have gotten a beating for such horrible footwork. Blood was running down his neck, and he knew that he needed to wrap his neck if he wanted to live, and soon. It almost felt like his grace was draining at the same rate of his blood. 

Cashel doubted that he would actually be able to kill the woman before she killed him, but at this point, he had already resigned himself to that, hoping that the others would use this as a distraction. He knew that he wouldn’t survive, but he also knew that if the others were smart, a few of them would probably live through the night. With some luck, one of them might have gone to get help, not that it would arrive soon enough.

He had managed to get the blade behind her neck and stopped his movements. She had also gotten him, this time in the stomach, but he had her. He pulled the chain with his other hand, slicing through her flesh before she could do the same to him. 

He finally fell to the ground, breathing roughly. His hands were brought up to his wounds, but he knew that it wasn’t going to be that easy.

If he could have, he would have laughed. Twenty years of fighting, and within thirty hours of being outside, and he was already closer to dying than he had ever been before. 

His vision grayed, and the world felt like it was spinning strangely. His last conscious thought was that at least he had earned a name. He wouldn’t be another nameless grave.   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses as to why this chapter is four days late, but I can say that I do, indeed, work, and I am attempting to find a second paying job. Please forgive the tardiness of this chapter. I will do my best to have the next one out on Wednesday. I hope you enjoyed the latest update!


	5. Chapter 4

He woke up. 

To normal people, that might not have been that strange, but for him… Was it all just a dream?

No, it his neck wouldn’t have been tightly wrapped, and pulsing in time with his heart beat if he was either dead or dreaming. His eyes were heavy, and he couldn't bring himself to open them. 

His mind felt hazy, confused in a way, but resigned in another breath. He tried to fight his way passed the fog in his head, but was swallowed up by it instead. 

 

The next time he was mostly aware, the thing that brought him out of his mind was the pain. His neck had rolled to the side in his sleep, pulling on his wounds, while his back disliked being laid on, and his stomach ached. 

He felt awful. He wanted to throw up, but knew better than to allow himself to do so. If he did, he would have lost whatever was in his stomach. While he was sure it wasn’t much, if anything, he didn’t want to put the pressure on his stomach, and the thought of the burning bile on his throat sounded more like a nightmare.

His eyes cracked open, before closing immediately. Not only had the light burned his sore eyes, but he didn’t want anyone knowing he was awake until he could remember how he had gotten hurt in the first place. 

Strangely, the first thing he remembered was colors. Red, white, and grey were the ones he had always known, but green, blue, purple, brown, black, and orange were all new words. From there, it moved to icy blue and mint green, and how much he had liked the colors. 

He couldn't remember how he had learned them though. It didn’t make sense. If this was after another Session, then maybe, maybe it would make sense why he was feeling so bad, but it couldn't have been, they had never bothered teaching him anything.

The next thing he remembered was warmth. Sitting under the sun with the cool grass on his aching back, turning to rest on his side instead and letting himself fall asleep outside. 

But, he had never been outside, had he? 

The meeting.

Councilman Vladislav, and Vilmos Helmut and blood. So much blood. 

His mind stuttered to a stop, and his eyes shot open. Was that real? Was that reality, or just his mind finally breaking? 

He looked around, he was in the icy blue and white room that he had been staying in. His torso was bared except for a white bandage wrapped around his stomach with a red stain that seemed to be growing. 

Everything hurt, and nothing made sense to his jumbled mind. 

The door opened to the room, and someone he didn’t know came in. The man was about the same age as the councilman, but with eyes that reminded him of fire and hair that was like sunlight. He was covered in scars and black markings, but didn’t seem to mind. 

"Hello Cashel." The man greeted with a voice that was rougher than Vladislav's deep voice or Vilmos' short- and- to- the- point tone. But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

It was the name, His name, that finally dropped the final pieces into place in his mind. He opened his mouth, before closing it with a grimace. 

"Are you thirsty?" The man asked, before rolling his eyes. "Of course you are. Stay still for a moment while I change the bandages, and I'll get you something to drink. That sound fair?"

Cashel wasn’t sure how the other expected him to reply. His throat felt like a desert on the inside, and a furnace on the outside. Normally, he would have nodded or shook his head as a method of communication, but if it had hurt that much when his neck had only rolled slightly before he had woken, he didn’t want to think about what moving on purpose was going to be like. 

"You've been asleep for almost two weeks now, after the incident at the Councilman's estate. I am told that we have you to thank for getting rid of Verawyn, the woman who killed Councilman Vladislav, by the way. It's so strange how no one saw… well, that’s a story for another day." The man's hands were rough, but not harsh as he unwrapped Cashel's neck. It was almost like the man didn’t want to actually cause him more pain. 

Cash shrugged off the thought. As if anyone didn’t want to hurt him. He was just being moronic now. He knew it. If anything, the man was being kind because he didn’t want Cashel to snap.

Not that he was in the mood to go on a rampage, or that he would get very far, even if he wanted to. 

A part of him pitied the pathetic human specimen in front of him, but even more of him just wanted to strangle the man.

He paused. Where did that come from? He had never been especially bitter, or, at least, he didn’t think he was. Maybe it was because the whispers in his head told him what the man clearly didn’t want to. 

He waited impatiently for the man to finish changing the bandages, looking to the side as they came off, before trying to get a good look at his stomach. It wasn’t that bad. Sure, it was probably pretty deep, but it hadn't hit any of his organs. It was jagged, which was probably why it hurt so much, but other than that, it looked like it was healing well. It had opened the scabs slightly when he moved, but that didn’t surprise him at all. 

He wasn’t bothered by the thought of yet another scar marring his body. Not really. What bothered him was the uncertainty that his mind kept circling around. He didn’t want to think about it, but when the bandages were unwrapped from his neck, he hissed. 

Or, he would have if he could talk. His eyes dropped shut as the cool air felt like it was freezing the wound. The man dabbed at it a few times, probably trying to mop up the blood, before wrapping another stark white bandage tightly around his neck.

It felt like someone had locked a collar around his neck again, only, for some reason, this was more humiliating. Maybe that was because he was not only more vulnerable than he had been in a long, long time, or maybe it was having a stranger near his already injured neck. Either way, he hated it.

It had probably only taken a few minutes for the new bandages to replace the old, but it felt like hours, especially when the other man was near his neck. Cash especially hated that the man kept touching his neck. It was sore, even the parts that weren't hurt, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be touched at all. If he had his way, the next time he had to do this, he would do it himself. He didn’t want to let anyone this close to him ever again. 

He really wanted nothing more than to be left alone to try and understand everything that had happened, and thankfully, he got the chance when the other man went to get him something to drink.

That alone was a weird thought. No one ever got him anything, not really. No, if he wanted something, he had to work hard to get it, from simple things like food to more complex things, like protecting the younger ones. 

If he wanted something that he knew was achievable, he would work hard to get it. he had never been handed anything. Maybe when he was younger, they bandaged him up after his punishments, but he doubted it. He had been taking care of his wounds for as long as he could remember. It would have been different, he supposed, if he had ever had anyone to help him in any way. But no, what most people would see as helpful, he now saw as invasive. It made him want to flinch away, which he was sure that the other man noticed, but being not only as weak as he was, but as sore, he couldn't obey his body.

He knew what these thoughts were, distractions. He was actually trying not to think about something, which by its self was different. He had always faced his problems head on, even if he was usually subtle about it, but this time was different. Everything was different.

A part of him wished, even if just for a moment, that he had never gotten out. He didn’t know why he was more comfortable with the idea of regular beatings, and being starved than he was being, well, here. 

It was so moronic, he was ashamed to have the thought. Sure, he wasn’t sure in which world he was safer, but he did know that if he hadn't gotten out, he would be dead. 

A little, tiny part of him whispered. At least this wouldn’t have happened, it told him, at least there, he knew where the threats were coming from. In this world, he was basically blind. The only way to truly learn was through experience, and the only way to get that was to learn about this new world that he had dived into. 

He wanted to hide away, but he knew that wasn’t possible for once. This world wouldn’t let him hide, no, this world wanted his attention. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to do anything now, but he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

The man came back in the room, holding a metal cup, bronze if he wasn’t mistaken. The man helped lift Cash's head, and didn’t even flinch away when he screamed silently at the movements. Once his vision cleared, and he could drink, he slowly sipped the water. 

It both soothed and hurt his aching throat. Swallowing was more unpleasant than it had ever been. He could say that much.

"So, I'm sure you are wondering about your wounds?" The man asked once he had given up on drinking anything else. Cashel felt his eyes roll. Was the man an idiot? It was his body. Of course he wanted to know what was happening to him. "You're healing well. I'll start with that. You are extremely resistant. All of your organs were missed by the knife wound in your stomach. That said, as you probably noticed, it wasn’t exactly a clean cut, so it's going to take time to heal correctly. They had to stitch that up, and they tried to close it by burning it, but Mr. Helmut told them that you would rather let it heal naturally."

At that moment, he was extremely glad for Vilmos Helmut. He wasn’t sure how the other man would have known that if he had a choice, his wounds would never be burned again. That said, his stomach seemed to drop as the other man refused to meet his eyes. 

"I, uh, I know that you never learned how to talk," The man started again, seeming like he was trying to brace himself for something. "but, well, that’s probably a good thing. The knife didn’t cut your jugular, thankfully, but that isn't to say it didn’t do a lot of damage to your voice box. From what I understand, if you hadn't moved when you did, you would be dead already. As it is, you, well, you're never going to talk, most likely." He stuttered out. 

Cash couldn't help but close his eyes again, so that the man couldn't see. It wasn’t that he couldn't talk, it was that he didn’t want to. Or, well, it had been. He had already learned to talk earlier than most, he hadn't even been eight years old when he started developing his vocabulary, but as far as anyone else knew, he was just as mute as most of the other kids were.

He had dreamed of one day proving them wrong, proving that he was more than just a number, but it seemed like that wouldn’t happen. He wondered what would happen to him now. Would he be sent back to the center, discarded like the trash he was? Would he still be given a chance at this life? Everything was too uncertain at this point for him to actually be able to know anything. 

The thought of never being able to say another word was enough to make him wish he had been drowned as an infant. He had never wanted to talk in front of anyone else, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have anything to say. He had plenty to say, but no one worth hearing any of it. He had hoped that once he had gotten out, he would find someone that he would eventually care enough about to actually listen to him. It seemed like that was just like his other dreams: useless and worthless now.

That said, he just wanted to curl up and hide away once again. 

But no, he had to stay strong, even if this meant getting rid of him because he was now flawed, and everyone knew that if there was one thing that the One Nation didn’t tolerate, it was flaws. Children with disabilities were seen as just as despicable as children who would rape someone. 

It made him wonder if this was what the Agent at his birth had seen or if it was something else all together. No one knew exactly what they would have done, because if they did, it was thought that it would encourage them to become the people that the Future picture had seen. 

That was just as unacceptable as being useless. 

Was this a disability? Or just a set back? The man hadn't said that he would never speak again, just that it was unlikely. If there was anything that he was good at, it was going against what people expected of him. He had lived when those around him died. He had gotten out when those he had grown up with died. If he could get out, he could talk. Maybe not right now, but later. He would find a way to talk eventually, even if it wasn’t traditional. 

Maybe a language outside of Common would be easier on his vocal cords? Probably not Terrai, Ynai, or Rudellai, but there were so many other languages and dialects that were softer, he hoped. It wouldn’t be impossible. 

His eyes opened slowly, thoughts racing through his brain. It wasn’t impossible, was it? It wasn’t like building would require much talking, so maybe he could still be useful. If he could convince, what was his masters name again?, Osred Freine that he could still do incredible things, then maybe he would be able to finally prove his worth to someone, even if it was only himself.

If not, well, he would have tried as hard as he could manage. He peered at the man in front of him, tilting his head slightly, cringing the moment he did. Nope. He wasn’t doing that again. Somehow, he doubted this man was Osred Freine. No, this man wasn’t worth the stuttering of Vilmos Helmut, or the amusement of Councilman Vladislav. There was something soft about the man in front of him, yet rough at the same time. Whatever it was, it told him that this man was not the teacher he was going to be looking for.

"You must be tired." The man said calmly. I'll leave you to get some rest. Someone should be here when you wake up, but in case they aren't, I'm leaving a bell by your bed. All you have to do is lift it and shake it. It will make the one I have in my pocket start ringing, and I will immediately come back. Alright?" 

Cash didn’t say anything. What was he supposed to say? Thanks? That was currently impossible. Nod? He supposed he could, but that would hurt, and he didn’t want to deal with that. He picked something that couldn't be misinterpreted. He closed his eyes, trying to relax into the soft bed. 

He heard the man leave, and he opened his eyes again. He just wanted to think, at this point, and that was hard enough without being watched by someone he didn’t even know. 

The first thing he needed to do was find a way to communicate without hurting himself. Maybe blinking, or gesturing using just his hands? Either way, it would require more thoughts than he was currently able to produce. Right now, he just hurt and wanted to sleep, even if he knew that was a bad idea. 

He felt his eyes close soon enough as he drifted off in his own mind. 

 

When he awoke, he carefully avoided moving. Voices had managed to drag him from the abyss, and he knew better than to show anyone that he was awake when he was hurt. It was a bit of a self defense thing.

"You want to what?" Someone hissed. They were clearly trying to keep themselves quiet, but there was still rage in their voices.

"I want to find out why everyone keeps trying to kill my guest." The other replied calmly. 

A third person, this one with a smoother voice, chuckled a bit. "This isn't really the place for this discussion, is it?" 

"Well, no." The first person admitted, "But you know what happened to the last person to get out of Valos." 

"You mean the media circus? Sorry to be the one to inform you of this, but there is no chance of anyone not wanting an interview with the Ward." The third told the first. 

"Besides, putting him in the spot light might keep him alive longer." The second piped in.

"Are you stupid? That's the last thing he needs!" The first person seemed to realize how loud he had gotten, before taking a deep breath. "Six. We've had six people already try to take his life so far. And that’s not including the harlot that hurt him in the first place. The last thing he needs is more attention. Who knows what the people will do when they find out about him. Do you really want to deal with even more attempts on his life, with his face pasted to every holo- phone, and other device? He'll never have anything like privacy." 

"Maybe, but if the people acknowledge him, it will keep everyone from looking too closely at things neither we nor the Council want them seeing. You know what I mean." The third suggested. 

Cashel stayed still for a moment longer, before carefully opening his eyes. If they were going to argue about him, they should either include him, or have the conversation far enough away that he couldn't overhear it.

Everyone else seemed to freeze, but he ignored them for the moment. He carefully moved his neck to the left, then the right, wincing slightly as he pulled the healing skin. He had more of a range of movement than he had the last time he had woken up. That was something. Once he had made sure his neck would stay still, he pushed himself up so that he was sitting. 

Two weeks of not moving had certainly hurt his already emasculated body, but he was more than used to being weak and in pain. His stomach burned in protest, but he ignored it, just like he had his back hundreds of thousands of times before. 

He could probably walk, he supposed, if he really needed to. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but it wasn’t as if anyone cared about his comfort. He knew one of the three people in the room. The second person, though now that his eyes were open, he wanted to hit himself for not recognizing Vilmos Helmut's voice. The other two were very different. 

The first was on the rounder side, with thinning white hair and worried light brown eyes. He was probably older than the Councilman, now that he was thinking about it. He was dressed in dark greens and royal blues that draped over his figure. This man, who ever he was, was someone that was well known.

The final person in the room was taller, with a strong looking body, but not overly so. He was probably a few years older than Cash was, with black hair braided over his shoulder and light grey eyes. His hands were covered in scars, and he had another one over his left eye, probably from an accident. 

The three men looked at each other, for a moment, unsure of what exactly they were supposed to do now. Vilmos and the older man looked slightly guilty, but the third man just looked amused. Cashel had a feeling that the man had known that he was awake, but didn’t say anything. 

"How are you feeling, Cashel?" Vilmos asked.

He carefully lifted a single shoulder before bringing it back down. He wasn’t sure what more he could do, but that was alright, he was used to people not understanding him. 

"Better than? Good to hear. It was a rather close call for a few hours. I'm assuming Dr. Roxbury told you not about your throat?" The older man asked again.

Cashel simply raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t lifting his shoulders in a shrug again. It hurt too much. He knew he would look like a human statue, but he didn’t mind. If he disagreed with someone, well, he would find a way to make it known. He wasn’t sure how, but he would. 

These people were so strange, he couldn't help but think. They had names, but never bothered introducing themselves. First the doctor, or who he assumed was the doctor anyway, now these two. How they expected him to react, he didn’t know, but clearly they were expecting something that he was simply not in the mood to do. 

Maybe they expected him to yell or scream or cry, but he wasn’t sure how they expected him to do that, seeing as he couldn't talk. He was too tired to react, he knew that. As soon as he felt like he could actually think again, he was sure that he would indulge their need for a reaction. He made a mental note to do so. 

"Oh, where are my manners?" Vilmos said, shaking his head a bit. That was exactly what Cashel was wondering, and he would have said so if he could have. "This is Governor Varden and an old associate of the councilman, the man who built this very estate, Osred Freine. Gentleman, this is Cashel Ward. Cashel was told by the Job Picture that he was to work with you, Osred. I'm sure he will become a fine architect." 

Cashel blinked. Well, this probably wasn’t a good thing. He wasn’t exactly expecting to be introduced to the Governor and his, possible, future employer while being wrapped in bandages and laying in a bed. 

He lifted his left hand in a slight wave. He wasn’t sure what else he could do. Speaking was out of the question, as was bowing with his stomach still healing and his neck feeling like it was in more pieces than together. 

The younger man laughed a bit. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cashel. I look forward to working with you in the future." 

He raised an eyebrow. He had expected, a bit idiotically apparently, that the older man was his master to be, while the younger one was the Governor. If the man had really done everything that they said he did, then either, he aged really, really well, or he had more help than anyone would ever admit to. 

"Could you leave us for a moment, gentlemen?" The apparent Osred asked. Vilmos clearly didn’t want to, but the governor did.

"Of course, Osred, of course. Good luck on your healing, Warden's project." Governor Varden told him, before backing out of the room, with Vilmos reluctantly with him.

As soon as the door closed, the other man straightened up. "You are in over your head, boy." Osred hissed at him. "Shall I explain how? Firstly, for at least the next few years, you will be in the public eye. Everyone knew that someone had a meeting with the Councilman from Valos. Everyone has been dying to meet you. The only reason they haven't yet is because Vilmos is being over protective. That said, the more people who know what you look like, the more people who are going to try and kill you. Somehow, someway, Vladislav saw that you would work with me. As it is, that’s not possible. I am a part of the government that no one outside the Clan knows about. Sure, I create during the days, and I'm good at it too, but I destroy at night. Normally, I wouldn’t say anything, but as it is, no one would believe you even if you could talk."

Osred paused for a moment, eyes narrowing in Cashel's direction. "If this is the life the Future Picture or the Job Picture saw for you, I would have killed you already. Somehow, you impressed Vladislav enough that he wanted you to work with us. Let me be blunt. Those who try to oppose the One Nation are killed immediately. We are the ones that do the One Nation's dirty work. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks, least of all us, but this is for the good of the Nation, and no one is going to get in the way, least of all you. Now, I would love to show you how a proper assassin slits someone's throat but that is currently not possible. You are exactly the cover that is needed right now, so that we can squish the Movement under out boots. Don’t think that you have a choice, this was decided the moment you were born, and why you were raised the way you were. You may think that this was random, but from the moment Vladislav came across you're real name, he knew, just like I did, that you were the one who would dirty their hands after I did. Do you understand? We may live in a world where freedom is nothing but an illusion, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t need it. If you even think about breaking it, I will kill you. The public eye and Vladislav's hopes will not protect you. Now, I will call in the doctor, and tell everyone that you weren't feeling very well. If you know what's good for you, you will never even think a word towards anyone else about this conversation."

And with that, Osred stormed out of the room. The moment the doctor came in, he considered fighting the injection of sleeping medication, but decided against it.

Osred really was a strange man, he decided as his eyes closed seemingly on their own. Somehow, he knew that he would have been safer inside Valos Rehabilitation Center than he was out here. But, strangely, he was alright with that. He had finally found a few answers to questions he had been wondering since he found out about the meeting in the first place.

Answers that created more questions, sure, but answers at least.


	6. Chapter 6

7 months later...

Sector T was probably his favorite. It was so different from all of the others, with high buildings that seemed to disappear into the clouds it was always covered in. Glass buildings were shorter, but no less magnificent. And the people...

They were one of the least biased Sectors he had ever seen. Currently, he was in the Estate of the Governor, a dark dreary building that had several towers instead of being mostly rectangular like the others he had been to.

Tonight was the birthday of the Councilman Tynan's daughter, and everyone who was anyone had been invited. Which, sadly for him, meant that he was stuck with Osred again. He glanced across the room, looking at the man dressed in all black, with his hair braided calmly down his back. Osred was laughing at something one of the other guests were saying, or at least, he looked like he was.

Even from here, Cash knew that it was fake, but didn't really bother going over to the man. He had been skeptical of the others, and rightly so. Certain members of the Guild still hated him, and more than half had attempted to take his life several times before.

He had guessed that there would have been a biased against him for being raised the way he was, but he had never known it would go so far. Instead of bothering with then, he had found companionship with the only other person hated as much as he was.

Ah, Cadis, lovely, intelligent Cadis had to put up with as much as he did. The Partial Human had it worse in a way, because the more subtle ways of making him suffer didn't affect her at all. She was faster, smarter, and stronger than the people she allowed to treat her like crap, but she had told him that it simply wasn't worth lashing out.

He preferred spending time with her over having to smile at people, shake their hands, and overall pretend that he was normal.

Cashel obviously wasn't. He was dressed in a similar black suit, but with a mint green button up under the jacket. His honey brown hair hand grown a lot, and was slicked back. It was now long enough to tease the back of his neck, and he preferred it this way.

He smiled again, politely, at the woman who was talking to him. She had been doing nothing but jabbering to him for the better part of the last ten minutes. Her hair was silvery blond, matching the sleek silver gown that hugged her curves, and her eyes were bright blue. She was pretty by any ones standards, but there was one thing she didn't seem to understand.

He wasn't there to be her friend. He was there to make sure her life didn't end before midnight.

Vilmos had summoned Cashel and Osred a few days before, telling them that a service was required of them. Apparently, the Councilman of Sector T had done a favor for Vladislav way back in the day, and thus, the man was calling it in. He had to protect Terina, and make sure that the threats were just that.

So, while Osred worked the guests, it was his job to stay with the birthday girl. If he had his way, they would have switched places, but seeing as he couldn't talk, and he was the same age as the Governor's daughter, he was a bit stuck.

He had heard a lot about Terina, including the fact that she wasn't exactly known for her brains, but Cashel wasn't fooled. He could tell she was trying to play him from the second they started talking. Her eyes glinted in intelligence, and he wondered what her job was going to be.

Probably a distraction, he admitted to himself. She was perfect at making sure no one was looking where she didn't want them to. Even he would have been fooled. Would have been being the key words here.

She placed a hand on his arm, and he tried not to flinch. She looked at him, eyes slightly narrow, but the smile was still firmly on her face.

"I think something's wrong." She mentioned, checking her perfectly manicured nails. "I don't see Papa anywhere."

He raised an eyebrow, and scanned the room, catching eyes with Osred. The other man slightly inclined his head towards a smaller door in the corner. It wasn't the grand door way that he and the other guests entered through, or the door he knew led to a large, winding staircase. No, that was a servants exit. It wasn't something that called attention to itself. The door blended in with the light wooden walls.

He huffed a silent sigh. This would be so much easier if he could talk. He led Terina towards Osred. The other man would most likely want to stay with the party instead of looking for the Councilman, but that was alright. The sound was starting to make his head hurt.

That said, the silence would hopefully sooth his aching temples. He wasn't holding his breath, obviously. He had a sneaking suspicion that the Councilman was, ehem, otherwise occupied. Especially if he left the room with the brunette that had been so handsy for the last hour or so.

He glanced around him once again. Nope, the pretty brunette was chatting up someone else, and being extremely touchy- feely. He half felt bad for the poor man. Oh well, the man looked like he was enjoying the attention.

He easily dropped off the Councilman's daughter with Osred, and he took it in stride. Cashel tilted his head slightly towards the door, letting the other know that he was going to be looking for Councilman Tynan. Osred looked away from him, dismissing him in a way.

No, he thought sarcastically to himself, I don't need your help. Please feel free to stay here and socialize while I drag myself though the manor. Honestly, he was getting tired of Osred and his complete disregard for his so called apprentice. The man had been leaving him to fend for himself, and Cashel knew that the only reason he had been dragged along that night was because Osred didn't want to do anything, and just wanted to enjoy himself. He could, obviously, take care of himself.

This was becoming a trend, Osred bringing him along so that he could do the job while the other man just relaxed away from the base. Then again, Osred had an antagonistic relationship with Blodwyn, and he was fairly certain Kalystia thought of him as a son. That said, some of the others, like Doren, the guy who was in charge of training with the Turning the Cards who enjoyed beating him up, or Frick and Shanley, another of the duo's that were gone more often than they were there, seemed to not get along with the young architect.

Not that he didn't understand the feeling of course. Osred was dismissive, cocky, and seemed to enjoy taunting Cashel. Especially with his moronic, 'Oh, what did you say? Wait, right, you're too stupid to talk' thing that he had started a few months before.

He knew, though, that Osred and he worked well together when the man actually felt like doing anything. The man was plain scary with his knives that he had coated in poisons strong enough to kill with a single slice. In a fight, which they had been in several of, Osred became quiet, deadly, and in the few seconds he had to study the other between attempts on his life, the older man was almost creepy with how little noise he made. Even Cashel made sounds as he fought, his boots against the floors, the snick of his chains as they flew through the air, even his breathing seemed louder. But not Osred. No, the man was made for the shadows.

When he felt like it, of course.

If Cashel only tried when he felt like it, though, he would have been rotting by now, he couldn't help but think as he slunk across the room towards the servants door. IT was easy enough to be ignored when everyone simply looked but never saw. They didn't bother actually seeing him more often than not, and even if they did, and they recognized him, he would be avoided.

He was fond of missions outside of Sector V, if only because very few people knew who he was. And that, well, that was much better than being looked at in a way that he felt like holes were being drilled in his body. He disliked being watched, and luckily, outside of Sector V, everyone was more accommodating to him by pretending he didn't exist.

Osred couldn't get away with sneaking off in the middle of a party, but Cashel? He could. And did. Often.

It was more fun for him to be out of the limelight. If Osred wanted the spotlight, Cashel was more than happy to give it to him.

He could admit, if only to himself, that sometimes, he wished he could garner the type of attention that Osred commanded, but those times were few and rare. Cash was more comfortable with himself now than he had been when he had first met Osred. He wasn't sure how much of that was because he could actually move, but he very carefully avoided thinking about it.

The door creaked open, and he glanced around him. No one noticed over the noise of the people. He slid through the doorway, and adjusted his tie. If the other man was where he thought he would be, well, it would certainly make things easier on him. He closed the door, and let out a sigh as he noise from the ballroom was muffled through the thick wood of the door.

His head was quite pleased with this arrangement, and he wanted nothing more than to just revel in the silence. He leaned against the walls, white with butterflies, strangely enough, leading the way down the halls. He followed them with a shrug. He wasn't sure what the attachment was with the insects, but he had certainly noticed the Councilman was obsessed with them.

He had seen them everywhere. There were several on the ceiling of the ballroom, they were on the knobs that decorated the stairs, they were carved into every pillar. That said, the councilman's daughter didn't seem enamored with them. She didn't even spare them a look, unlike her father. No, they were simply a part of the house that had long since lost its magical appeal to her. The Councilman, on the other hand, seemed to stare at every single one they passed when he and Osred were shown around earlier.

Because of that, he was led to believe that it was Councilman Tynan's obsession with the insect that caused them to be placed everywhere and not his daughters or his wife's.

He shook his head for a moment, and continued down the halls, taking a wild guess that the butterflies would lead him towards the councilman.

To his surprise, the butterflies led towards a smaller, but no less grand, marble staircase. He shrugged again, and started climbing the stairs. It was slightly disturbing being watched by the small insects. He knew that they weren't real, but he could still feel their tiny eyes watching his every movement. It was almost enough to make him want to just give up. Alas, if he left before getting the Councilman, Osred would never let him live it down.

Why the man was so obsessed with proving that he was better than Cash, he couldn't figure out, but he still, moronically, hoped that the man would grow out of it soon. He wasn't holding his breath though. Osred seemed to enjoy it.

Finally, the trail of butterflies stopped on the third floor, and Cashel ignored the urge to see how far up the stairs went. He continued down the hallway, slipping his hands in his pockets, even as the hair on the back of his neck stood up. There was something weird going on.

The whole feel of the house was strange, he had noticed it the moment he had walked in, probably because Osred built the grand estate and, according to him, was connected to them. He had noticed Osred's sharp inhale as soon as they walked through the grand door way. The man had seemed disturbed, for a moment, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. Cashel hadn't thought much of it at the time, but now, he was wishing that the other had bothered filling him in.

His eyes darted back and forth, as his fingers messed with the long, thin chain in his pocket. Was he being paranoid? Probably. He knew as much, and had long since accepted that he as less likely to be relaxed in any situation than any other normal person. That was alright though. His intuition was the only thing that had kept him alive for as long as he was.

And it was, said intuition was yelling at him to get out of the house quickly. He couldn't understand what was going on, though. It didn't make any sense for him to suddenly want to leave. Maybe it was the eyes. The eyes had been burning his body since he had walked inside. Maybe his nerves were finally frayed enough that he couldn't afford to stay any longer without wanting to hurt something.

The buzzing certainly wasn't helping to keep him calm. Wait, buzzing? He looked around. Was that in his head, or was that actually something he was hearing? It didn't...

He quickened his steps, following the butterflies once again, before stopping outside of the biggest door in the hallway. He closed his eyes and opened his ears. He didn't hear anything from inside, not that was really noticeably wrong anyway.

Maybe the man wasn't cheating on his wife. Maybe he had just snuck away to get some work done. Cashel could understand the urge. He stared at the door. What was he supposed to do now? He supposed he could just open the door, or knock. Knocking sounded like a good idea, so that's what he did.

The sound was strangely hollow for such a well made door. It almost sounded like this door wasn't created to keep sound out, but to, well, keep sounds in.

He turned the door knob, which was covered in etchings of butterflies, surprise, surprise. The door clicked slightly, and refused to turn. Cashel rolled his eyes. He understood the need to get away, but if something happened to his daughter, it would be difficult to let the man know.

Something in his mind really didn't want to open the door, but it was squished by the need to complete the job assigned to him. It was annoying, but after a moment to think, he reached for his boot, and pulled out the small lock picking set that he had, accidently, gotten off of a man from Sector G.

To be fair, the man had been trying to kill him. Cashel hadn't returned the favor, simply preferring to knock the man out instead. He had also relieved the idiot from anything valuable. He had done this for everyone who had attempted to take his life in the last few months. Well, most of them anyway. He had gotten several interesting things from his would be killers.

Several dozen knives, three poison needle sets, a bow staff, a couple of explosives, and, his personal favorite, an old fashioned mechanical bow that could be compressed into a small box the size of his palm were just a few of the things that he had picked up. The arrows were thin, and folded perfectly. He had several of them hiding in his boots, along with the lock picking kit, a few daggers, a knife, and the smallest of the needle kits. Even if no one could see anything, he was more than slightly prepared for whatever threats he might encounter.

It was funny in a way, thinking about Osred and Terina. Neither of them had an idea that he had as many weapons on him as he did. At least he knew he could protect whoever was with him instead of letting them get hurt. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

He easily picked the lock, trying not to think about how much he had improved with the small thin pieces of metal. The lock would have been more effective if it was a specialty lock. There were a few that Osred had designed that could either electrocute or burn the person trying to get in, but Cashel knew that this wasn't one of the trap locks. This was an old fashioned lock that should have been thrown away decades ago.

The lock clicked, and he hid a smirk. He had been doing that a lot lately. He turned the knob slightly, and sighed to himself. The door was blocked. He needed to find a way around. It was so moronic that he even had to do this in the first place, but, he had a job to complete.

He rolled his neck carefully, feeling the scars on his neck stretch slightly, before looking for an alternate route. He glanced behind him, towards the stairs, and shrugged.

Mind made up, he headed up a floor so that he could easily climb down the window in the room above Councilman Tynan's. He supposed he could go and get a key, or he could call Osred, but he really wasn't in the mood for the smugness he knew he would get from the older member of Turning the Cards. No, he could do this by himself.

And if he had a bit of fun hanging outside of windows and climbing on the outside of buildings, well that was his business, wasn't it? As long as he didn't fall, he could just peek through the window, make sure the man was alright, then go back to the party. That was easy enough.

He walked quickly towards the end of the hall, eyes narrowed on the door right above the councilman's room. It too, was locked, but it was too easy to get inside. That door opened easily under his careful touch.

Once it did, he regretted it.

His eyes narrowed as he took in the room. The councilman had, apparently, had eyes on him and the others, as well as several dozen people he didn't know, for a long while. His picture, as well as a paragraph he couldn't read was attached to Osred's with a blue string.

The most worrying thing was the way the room had several people circled. He may not know most of the people, but he knew two. Cadis, and himself. He walked further into the room, staring at the picture of himself, a little grainy, but from his first few days at Councilman Vladislav's estate. He pulled a small notebook out of the inner pocket in his suit, and carefully copied the words that he couldn't understand down. Even if he couldn't read them, he could still write them. Hopefully, he would be able to find someone to translate for him. That said, he didn't like the way that the entire room was filled with pictures of people he knew, and those he didn't. He couldn't help but notice how the people surrounded by a circle were the ones with the most pictures coating the walls.

He wasn't sure what the councilman was trying to do. He and several other sectors were in complete alliance. Even if a few of the Sectors didn't like each other, they didn't dare cause any problems unless they wanted the others to come down hard on them to completely destroy the sector.

Several of the Sectors had already been rebuilt. He knew that O, Q, and B had all attempted to take over the One Nation at one point or another. Of course, they were wiped out, and new people were implanted in the Sectors until they had re- grown from the ashes.

That said, the pictures didn't make any sense. He assumed he knew why they would follow him and Cadis, but that didn't explain why the others from the group were on the wall as well.

He glanced around, again, making a mental note of all the people he had seen, and started comparing them to the ones on the wall. Outside the group though, he didn't recognize any of them, and somehow, he doubted that he would ever meet any of them.

Just in case, though, he decided to memorize the faces on the wall. It only took him a few minutes of standing there, before he moved onto the papers on the bed in the corner.

He frowned a bit, but shook it off. He could come back here later, and bring Osred with him, to make sure that he got everything from the room that he needed to have. He mentally frowned a bit, before moving to the window.

The crisp wind bit into his face, and a grin overtook his face. This was going to be fun.

He took off his gloves, folding them carefully to be placed into his pocket, and shrugged off the suit jacket, leaving him in the vest underneath, as well as the long sleeved buttoned tunic. He didn't bother removing anything else. He glanced around, and placed the jacket on the back of the old wooden chair that looked like it was going to fall apart.

Once he had made sure there wouldn't be any extra wrinkles, he moved back to the window, and reached one leg over the window sill. He moved carefully, but confidently until he was hanging from the ledge. A glance down made sure that he would land exactly where he wanted to, and he let go.

His boots made a light thumping sound as he reached the window sill in the floor beneath. It was going to be fun trying to get back up. He was going to have to figure out if he wanted to go through the inside or the outside, but he would worry about that in a moment.

He peered through the slightly fogged glass, and felt his breath catch. This was going to be a pain to explain, he couldn't help but think as he stared in front of him.

A part of him sighed. Great. Just great.

He was really starting to hate the color red.


	7. Chapter 7

Dead. The councilman was dead. The second councilman was dead, his mind helpfully corrected. He closed his eyes for a moment. He knew how this would look. He was hanging outside of the window of a room that was sealed off by the headless body of Councilman Tynan. 

The Sins of T have been Redeemed.

That idiotic phrase was written in what Cashel assumed was the blood of the councilman. He had a feeling that he would be seeing this scene in his mind for many years to come. He had no doubt that, if at all possible, this would be blamed on him. It was enough to make him wish he could talk, if only so he could scream. 

He took a deep, calming breath, and pulled himself up on the sill above his head. Right now, he needed to get back to the party so that Osred could figure out how to play this. Assuming, of course, that the other man believed that he didn’t actually do anything. 

He was the first to admit that it was suspicious. He knew that being present at the death of Councilman Vladislav, and being the one to find Councilman Tynan's body didn’t look good. He had no doubt that this whole thing would be swept under the rug if at all possible. He nibbled on his bottom lip.

Part of him wanted to flee, the thought of ending up in Valos again was enough to make him sick, but if he ran…

If he ran, there would be no chance of the One Nation Government actually looking for the real killer. 

He laughed silently. It didn’t make any sense. The whole point of the Future Picture was to make sure that people like this weren't able to kill. That said, he was sure that destinies shifted when those who would murder were killed at birth.

It came down to rather or not you believed you could suffocate evil before it had a chance to spread. From the little bit he had seen of the outside world, he was doubting it more and more often.

He knew that he wasn’t the only one who was doubting the government, and he wasn’t the only one who wouldn’t say anything. 

Everything was starting to spin, and he held himself midair, letting his head fall against the cool stone of the estate. What was he supposed to do now? How could he possibly trust anyone to…

He knew he needed to find Osred, and he narrowed his eyes, focusing on that single thought. Everything else could wait until he had Osred with him. And Terina, if she was still with him, was probably in just as much trouble. 

There was no way to save her father, but he could save her. And he would. 

He carefully flipped up, and caught himself as he landed. His foot slipped a bit, and he had to grab the window. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he was fairly certain that his breathing was too fast to be safe, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting to Osred.

He ran his hands down his sides, straightened his tie, and went to grab his jacket. Once it was safely on his body, he closed the bottom two buttons, making sure that no one would be able to tell he was freaking out a bit. 

Cash resisted the urge to run a hand over his hair, a habit that Osred used every time he was thinking. He had been catching himself using the same method to keep himself calm. Not that he would ever admit it, of course.

He closed the door to the room with the pictures behind him as soon as he slipped his gloves back on, easily locking it back. He moved the lock picking kit from his pocket back to his boot, and nodded a bit to himself. He would need to lock the office on the third floor as well.

That decided, he headed down the stairs, just one flight this time thankfully. He paused half way down, closing his eyes and listening as hard as he could. A light snick had caught his attention, and his eyes widened as he rushed down the rest of the way. 

Osred with his knives was fighting two people while Terina cowered behind him. Cashel knew that Osred was taking more hits than he normally would because he refused to allow them to hit the young woman. 

He pulled the square out of his pocket, pushing a button at the same time he reached down and grabbed a set of the folding arrows. He easily slid into the correct position, and fired once, twice. 

Both of the people fell with the metal arrows carving into their skulls before they had time to think. Osred threw a knife in his direction, probably thinking that he was another enemy. 

Thankfully, he knew how to dodge. 

He probably could have caught the knife if it had been anyone else throwing it, but Osred and his knives were one in a way that Cashel couldn't even understand. The knife hit the back of the staircase where his head would have been, had he not ducked.

Osred cursed loudly when the adrenaline finally left him. 

Cashel wanted to smirk, but resisted the urge. However, nothing could have stopped the man from cursing when he was coming down from a high. Cashel knew. He had seen Kalystia try. If even she couldn't manage it, then no one could. 

"Where have you been?" Terina questioned, her voice shaking. "Did you find Papa?" 

Cashel allowed his head to fall forward a bit as he pushed the button on the side of the metal bow, letting it contract again until it folded back. He approached them slowly, hoping not to trigger the other man again, and yanked the arrows out of the corpses with a single tug. 

He wasn’t sure how to answer that. He did, however, gesture for Osred to head towards the office. He made a sharp slicing gesture with his left hand, while making sure that the other man understood not to take Terina anywhere near the room.

They had worked together long enough for Osred to be able to guess what he meant. He had several gestures that even Osred was able to understand. The slice with one hand meant someone was dead, both hands meant a trap, or that there were several enemies nearby and to be cautious. 

He knew that to most people, he probably looked insane, but it wasn't like there was any other way to communicate with Osred or most of the others. At least with Cadis, she was able to tell what he meant by the incline of his head, and the way his facial features were arranged. It was mostly just a guessing game if he was being honest. But that was alright. He didn't need anyone to be able to understand him. He was content with the few gestures that the other understood. 

Osred barely reacted beyond a slight widening of his eyes. Cashel could have laughed in relief. The other actually understood him. 

He wasn't sure if Osred understood the situation though. To be fair, even his mind couldn't fully grasp it. Terina, thankfully, just looked confused.

“Why don't you take the Councilman’s daughter back to the party?” Osred suggested.

Cashel nodded slightly, relieved that he was going to be able to get away from the corpses.

“No!” Terina yelled, glaring at him. “I'm not leaving until I see Papa.” She turned to Osred, “You promised I could see him! If you don't bring me to him, I'm going to scream!” She warned.

Cashel took a few steps towards her while her attention was on Osred. He was more than willing to knock her out, but Osred shifted slightly.

He could have pouted. He knew that meant he wasn't allowed to do anything. 

“I don't think that's a good idea, Turem Terina.” Osred warned calmly. 

Cashel mentally ran through what he knew of Sector T's language, trying to remember what that word meant. He was almost positive that it was some kind of term for the royalty of Sector T, and their highly respected children. 

Or, at least those that officially existed.

He knew that there were several hundred children that no longer existed according to the government, heck he was one of them. That said, only the female children were able to gain the title of Turem in Sector T, the others had their own separate title. 

"Exactly." Terina told Osred smugly. Cashel could have hit himself upside the head. "I'm the councilman's daughter, I'm Turem Terina,, and you are simply a commoner. If you don’t take me to my Papa, I can have you arrested for treason."

"But would you?" Osred questioned calmly. Cashel wanted nothing more than to disappear, but from the stubborn look on her face, she wasn’t going to be going anywhere without seeing her father. 

That wasn’t a good thing.

Cashel was used to seeing rooms painted red, but he doubted she would have ever seen anything like it. Her father's body looked like it was still in one piece, his suit wasn’t even wrinkled, but the man's head? Cash had a feeling that the little that remained of the man's skull and brain was drying in the other room. He had seen little pieces of white, pink, and red chunks, but he carefully avoided thinking about them. He had a feeling that only the scalp of the councilman was missing, which didn’t make him feel much better.

He knew that if she saw the inside of the room, she would never heal. She wasn’t like him, neither was Osred who still seemed surprised by certain acts of violence. He knew what to do with the memories of the inside of the office. Neither Terina nor Osred were mentally prepared to actually deal with death in the way he could. 

It probably didn’t help that he knew exactly how to deal with the memories, and his methods wouldn’t work for the other two. No, as callous as Osred appeared to the outside world, he was still strangely innocent in the cruelty of humans. Terina was probably even worse than Osred was. She wouldn’t be able to handle what was inside the room.

That said, he also knew that she wasn’t going to back down any time soon. If he could talk, he would have attempted to persuade her to leave the subject alone, but as it was, he wasn’t sure how safe she was. Somehow, he doubted the men that he had killed were the only assassins here. He also knew without a doubt that the men he had killed were not the men that killed the councilman.

Oh no, that person was probably back in their human skin, having shed their killer side, and back to mingling without any one having noticed they disappeared in the first place. 

He nibbled on his bottom lip. His first priority, he knew, should be to protect the Councilman's daughter. But, there was only so much he could do. Especially when not even Osred was prepared for what he was going to see. It wasn’t safe to bring her with them into the room to gather clues on who dared break the treaty. It wasn’t safe to leave her alone either. 

He had probably missed a few things in his rush to get out of the room, things that Osred could see, but that didn’t mean that he wanted to scar the man. A part of him wanted to send both of them into the office so that their innocent trust in the world would be as shattered his was. 

Thankfully, the logical part of his mind decided against it. If he ruined their minds now, he would be stuck with not one, but two useless excuses for people. There were a lot of things he could do by himself, but he knew that this wasn’t one of them. He couldn't figure this out by himself, nor could he actually get out of this place without their help. 

He would be the number one suspect, and he would be surprised if he wasn’t brought in for interrogation. Seeing as he didn’t have a method for communication that everyone could easily use, he knew that he would be an easy target. He couldn't even blame them if they did arrest him. If he didn’t know any better, he would suspect himself too, but that was, sadly, not the dilemma he needed to solve at this moment. 

He needed to figure out what he was going to do about the daughter of the corpse, and how he was supposed to get them out of this situation without tearing their minds apart.

"I want to see my dad." Terina demanded. Osred sent him a slightly hopeless look. 

Cashel moved towards her again, this time easily in her view. Once he was sure he had her attention, he peeled off his left glove, and showed her his hand where he had accidently placed his hand on one of the pink and red chunks. Her father's blood painted his palm, and he shook his head. 

She grabbed his wrist tightly and stared at his hand. 

"I'm sorry." Osred finally admitted.

Those words were enough to cause her eyes to tear up as she stayed frozen. Cashel would have rolled his eyes if he thought he could get away with it. How had she not guessed? He knew it had something to do with that family bond that he didn’t understand, and that was alright. 

Now that she understood that her father was headless and cooling, not that she needed to know the headless part yet, she would, hopefully, help them get her to safety. 

The butterflies watching him on the walls were starting to unnerve him again, and he knew that they were far too exposed for his liking. Once they were safe, she could break, and he would make sure that Osred comforted her. 

For now, though, her life was in too much danger to be able to afford standing there in the middle of the hallway for much longer. 

He really hoped that Osred's secret hide out in this house was still active. If it was, then it created a safe place for Councilman Tynan's daughter. If it had been locked down, or blocked off…

Well, he wasn’t going to think about that for now. 

He reached over and smacked Osred's shoulder, giving the other a dry look. Osred started from his position staring at Cash's hand. He wasn’t sure what else he could do to get the other two jump started again, but he knew that if they stayed here, the body count would rise soon. If he and Osred would be in their numbers, he didn’t know.

Thankfully, Osred seemed to be able to pull himself together, at least enough to yank his mask back in place.

"Right," Osred muttered, more to himself than to them, but it was more than Cashel dared to hope. "We need to get you to the bunker, Turem Terina." 

"I-" She trailed off, looking at the office with wide, scared eyes. "Papa's not coming with us, is he?" She clearly didn’t want to know the answer to her own question. 

He more than understood the urge to simply not ask.

He slowly shook his head, and Osred let out a loud sigh. 

"I'm sorry, Turem, but no. You're Papa isn't going to be joining us." 

Or, at least, not what was left of the man. It wasn’t worth trying to protect the corpse of the councilman when the man's daughter was in so much danger. If he was the person behind this, he would have known that someone was coming to add extra security, he would have known how to casually lure the Councilman away from his guests, and he would have used the man's daughter to make sure his words were heard.

The daughter would have, in his mind, been an easier target, but clearly, whoever did this disagreed. If only he didn’t have to worry about Terina being used as a hostage against Sector T, he would have been able to concentrate on the crime and what he needed to do to keep her safe, as well as the others.

He really disliked having to divide his attention, but it was only because of that he was able to push her down when he heard the slight click of an Iron Shot. He could tell instinctively that the shooter would aim to take out her guards before taking her. 

But what they didn’t know was Cashel wasn’t going to let that happen. Osred, thankfully, was out of the range, and he knew that the older man could take care of himself. He reached for his pocket and pushed the button again as he and Terina rolled on the ground away from the bursts of iron that could have torn through their skin. He easily reached for his arrows, pulling out the dirty ones first, and started firing in the direction that the shots came from. 

Osred cursed loudly, and Cashel wanted to glare at the man, but couldn't afford to stop scanning the area for the threat his mind told him was there. It was so strange that he could practically hear the person's heart beat, but his eyes didn’t see anything. 

He mentally blanched. That meant he was dealing with someone specially adapted to this kind of thing. He had never considered the fact that the killer could have been invisible, but now that he was, it made sense. 

Perfect Human.

This was really, really bad.

If he was right, then the person they were going against would be anywhere from two to ten times faster than regular humans, and their DNA had been adapted to fool the sight of the people around them. This one was probably created to be stealthy, so it could turn invisible with nothing more than a thought. 

There was one other thing that made dread rise inside his gut. Perfect humans were both created by the One Nation, as well as dispatched in teams. As far as he was aware, it was literally impossible for a Perfect Human to defect, because they're loyalty was encoded in their DNA.

That meant that it would take much more to kill them, much more to trick them, and much more work to find them. Getting them to bleed was practically impossible from what he had heard, as they were able to hear each other's thoughts, and in some cases, even the thoughts of Normal Humans and Partial's as well. 

Osred cursed again, probably realizing the same thing that he did. If they were, in fact, Perfect Human's, then the death was planned by someone in the One Nation, as well as the slightly more awkward realization that this entire night was most likely created to hunt. Who their target was, he didn’t know, but somehow, he knew that he didn’t want to find out.

All three of them would have made good targets. Osred because he could build almost anything, Terina because of her status as the Councilman's daughter, and him, the first person to leave Valos in seventy years. 

Yes, they would have been good targets indeed. 

More shots rang out, and Cashel did his best to ignore them. As soon as the Perfect Human's realized that their targets knew what they were, the telepathy would start, and he hoped to end this mess before that. 

He lined up a shot, it wasn’t clear, just a slight shift in a shadow that was a few inches off from where it was supposed to be, and took a deep breath as he fired the metal arrows. All he got for his troubles were a louder breath, and a floating arrow. 

That said, he now, at least, knew where one was. He fired three more shots, hitting the other shoulder, and the other two missing as the P.H. ducked and weaved as if it wasn’t touched at all. 

If he had learned anything about the hunting patterns of the P.H., it was that they sent in the weakest of the group to distract, while the stronger members closed in from behind.

He turned on his toe, lining up another shot right between where Osred was fighting and Terina was trying to stay out of the way. He fired, cranking up the tension so that it would have more force behind it, and let two more arrows fly. He could have cursed. Osred was being more unpredictable, and didn’t stay still, but if he had frozen in the path of the arrow, there would have been little he could do.

Thankfully, the other man moved out of the way before the arrows could tear into his skin. 

Cash didn’t miss though, and a louder shriek was heard from the creature. It dropped its invisibility, and Cashel swallowed harshly. It was seven feet tall, at the least, humanoid in appearance, but without a mouth. Its eyes were bigger than his own, and pure white with two black dots in the middle of each one. It had short, buzzed green hair, and when it lifted its long, boney arm, he flew backwards. 

He hit the wall with a harsh bang, and barely kept his grip on his bow. That P.H. seemed to have lost its interest in Osred and Terina, thankfully, but it started coming his way. He tried to get up, but an invisible force held him down. Only the slight refraction of the shadows told him that it was another P.H. He struggled for a moment, trying to reach his boot, and grabbed a thick dagger out of its holster, using every bit of force he could to penetrate its thick skin. 

It worked barely.

For a split second, he wondered why they were using this form, instead of the carefully constructed illusions that made them look normal. But he couldn't let himself worry about it for much longer, as he finally realized who the targets were. 

Osred was subdued almost pitifully quick, knocked out with a harsh, boney wave of the creatures hand. The loud thunk of his body hitting the wall was almost worse than Terina's scream. 

He struggled to get near the Councilman's daughter, but it was no use. He was stuck. 

A voice laughed in his head as the P.H. got closer to him. It got closer, and he could smell the foulness of its skin. He knew that he wouldn’t get out of this any time soon, but that didn’t stop him from flinching away as the long boney fingers stroked the side of his face.

Five more of the P.H. came into view, letting him see just how futile trying to escape would be. He clenched his fists at his side as Turem Terina was backhanded by one of them, and crumbled down next to Osred. One of the creatures, slightly shorter than the one holding him, with brown tatters barely covering its skeletal frame, picked up Osred and threw him over his shoulder. 

"Do you surrender?" The green haired leader asked, the voice echoing through his mind.

"Get out of my head!" He mentally screamed as rage flowed through his veins. He had hoped that someone would be able to understand him, but this… this was just violating his mind. 

The chuckle sounded again in his head, and he scowled. 

They knew as well as he did that he was stuck and not going anywhere, even if they let him go. He wouldn’t abandon Osred, even if he was really tempted to. He didn’t have any loyalty to the man, not really, and it wasn’t like Osred knew anything about him to tell anyone, besides maybe what he ate, or that he was really fond of his bow, but that wasn’t why he was staying.

He was staying because if he left, he knew that they wouldn’t hesitate to either kill the Turem, or use Osred to get the rest of the group. Since they clearly knew that both he and Osred weren't law abiding citizens, it could lead them, or whoever dispatched them, to wonder where they came from, and that would start questions that he didn’t want anyone to answer. 

Most of them, he couldn't care less if they lived or died, but Cadis… she was a Partial Human, and therefore had a Kill on Sight order out on her. He wouldn’t contribute to her death if he didn’t have to. 

He blocked all thoughts of her and the rest from his mind and carefully focused on the rage building in his stomach. 

"Give up, 907254179." It whispered, "You know you cannot win against us." 

He rolled his eyes. "Well duh." he couldn't help but think.

It laughed again, a heavy, deep sound that rolled over his skin revoltingly. "Just like us." It told him, stroking his face again, "So brave, so fake, so… imperfect.” 

"I'd rather be imperfect than look or smell anything like you." He shot back. It felt so weird having the thoughts of something else being injected into his mind. It made him feel dirty, and crave nothing more than a soothing bath to wash away the grime that the P.H. was leaving in his mind. 

"What do you even want?" He mentally asked. 

"For you to close your eyes, and sleep."

His eyes felt heavy, and he wanted to yell at the .P.H. had the ability to inject thoughts into a person's mind, obviously, but it made it harder to resist certain suggestions. His eyes fluttered shut and the laugh echoed one last time through his head. 

With some luck, this would be enough. It had to be.


	8. Chapter 5

He could barely stay still as Doctor Roxbury peeled off the last of the bandages on his stomach. He had finally, finally, healed up enough to no longer need them. It was strange how much better he could breath once the man moved away. It had been two weeks since the, what was the word, conversation with Osred Freine, and almost a month since he had been hurt in the first place. 

His neck still needed to stay bandaged, but he really didn’t mind that one. This, though, meant more than just being able to breathe. It meant he was free to walk again and try to build back up his muscles. It also meant that his time at the estate was coming to a close. He and Osred, from what he understood, would be leaving in two days. He hoped he would have healed enough to be able to move freely and without pain, but he knew it was an idiotic thought. He knew that he was going to have to fake it until everyone around him believed, which, he knew, would really hurt. 

He avoided looking at his stomach, already knowing the scab was starting to shirk to be replaced with shiny scar that would spread over the entirety of the wound soon enough. He had a feeling that this scar would be one of those that would pull open a few more times before it would finally close up. He had several of those, and each was more irritating than the last. 

He had been introduced to several more new things in the past weeks, mostly things about politics, which wasn’t as interesting as he hoped it would be. He had been mostly left alone, but Vilmos had stopped by a few times to keep him company. 

Even if he appreciated the gesture, it wasn’t necessary. He was more than content to stay by himself to try to build up strength again. 

Doctor Roxbury smiled nervously. "Well, you're looking better. A few more weeks, and your stomach will be healed up completely. I would like you to focus on gaining some weight though. I know you want to get up and start moving around, but please be sure to eat more than you actually want. It makes it easier on your body if you have a bit of muscle and fat. Other than that, your neck looks better, but I wouldn’t recommend leaving it uncovered yet. You seem to tear the stitches in that more than your stomach. I know it's hard, but you need to stop moving it so much if you want it to heal." 

Cash blinked once. Well duh. He had noticed that a while ago. The thing about Doctor Roxbury was the man had a tendency to state the obvious. He never said anything that Cashel couldn't already infer. The man was a good doctor, of that he was sure, but the man was also extremely nervous around him. 

Most of the residence of the estate had long since gotten used to his presence, usually spending his days in the room by the window when he could move. Other than that, he was practically a ghost. He had started to see things that weren't as obvious because no one expected him to be able to understand anything.

Vilmos was the temporary councilman, he thought with a mental smirk. The man, while always trying to visit, looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. The poor man was definitely ready for the next councilman to take over.

But, from what he could tell, that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. Vilmos had told him a secret, one that could hurt everyone if it ever got out. Vladislav was had ordered the death of several potential councilmen over the years. It wasn’t until the man had passed his last birthday before he finally realized that the councilman had passed his prime. 

He had known that a few of the other members of the council had probably ordered the same thing, but it was strange thinking that Vladislav had been one of those. He had learned that while the man had grown into the position, like most of the council, this generation, the fourth, were the oldest of all the council. Most of the earlier generations had retired before their sixtieth birthday, which was fairly young considering that Vladislav had only just passed his prime at one hundred and twenty.

That was another strange thought. Apparently, before the One Nation formed, everyone was divided in a way that caused war, and the people barely lived until their eighties. Thanks to advances in technology, they aged slower compared to how humans used to. 

Another strange thing was the Council themselves. They, apparently, had free reign over their Sectors, and were the only outsiders allowed in their respective Rehabilitation Centers. Most of those who's profession didn’t line up with the Sector they were in had to send a request to their councilman who would ask the councilman of the Sector that was being asked about. If someone was coming from Sector J, for instance, they had to give a person to Sector J in return for the one that they had gotten. It didn’t always make sense to do so, but that was alright. 

Most things in the One Nation didn’t, he couldn't help but notice. 

He was more of an outsider, and he was sure that some of the habits he had picked up from the Center were strange to Vilmos and the others, but he honestly didn’t care. At least his habits made sense, unlike how only improper people would eat in a counter clockwise circle. Cashel knew that he would have to learn these, but at this point, he was using them more to give himself a laugh than to actually memorize them.

He stared at the window, and tried to slowly sit up once he was left alone again. He really just wanted to force himself to push passed his limits, but instead he was lounging on the bed, waiting calmly. He really wanted to go and figure out what he was going to do with his life. The sooner he started, the sooner he knew he could adjust. 

In this case, though, adjusting quickly wasn’t a bad thing. It was probably the only thing keeping him sane. Not that he was a hundred percent sold on that sanity thing either.

Then again, maybe his version of the world wasn’t the correct one. Maybe it was one of those words that he had heard a few times and memorized, but had yet to use it properly in a sentence. He had several of those by now.

Not that he would string together another sentence anytime soon. Sure, he wished his voice still worked, but it was too late to change anything about it. He was sure that given enough time, he would figure out a way to actually communicate, instead of simply raising his eyebrows when he thought they were being moronic. Which, not that he was going to lie, happened more often than he had expected. 

Especially with the good doctor. Roxbury would say something like 'Moving will just cause you pain,' and Cashel wanted to strangle the man. 

Really, he wanted to say, however could I have figured that out without you telling me? Oh, right, he could just move his neck and realize that. 

He knew it was more to do with the fact that he made the doctor nervous. He would be surprised if the Doctor had ever actually met someone that was released from Valos Rehabilitation Center. Sometimes, he had to wonder if the man was only a doctor in name. Sure, he was there, which was something, but it wasn’t enough to change his mind.

That was the thing about the Future Picture that always made him pause. Just because someone was supposed to do something didn’t mean that they would be good at it, or that they had the personality to succeed in whatever field. 

Which made him wonder once again why he was chosen for the field that he was. He wasn’t that smart, he was a bit more emotional, especially concerning the younger ones, didn’t listen to orders very well, and was honestly so confused most of the time it was obnoxious. 

Whatever the reason, he was going to be trained for both a secret sector of the government as well as being an architect. He didn’t think that was actually a good idea, in fact, it sounded horrible seeing as he wasn’t a killer, but that didn’t, and wouldn’t mean much to his… Osred. 

He wasn’t sure what to call the man, or what exactly made him want to lash out, but whatever it was stopped him from respecting the man. As long as no one actually bothered looking him in the eye, he knew he could get away with it. Sure, he could fake it, but for an assassin, emotions were something that they needed to both understand and get rid of. 

That said, he couldn't bring himself to respect his so called teacher when the man refused to acknowledge anything other than himself. There was something in the man's eyes that, while he didn’t understand it, made him want to strangle him. Whatever it was, it made sure that until the other man respected him, he wouldn’t respect his so called teacher. Either that, or if the other proved that he was an actual teacher who taught him something. Anything at all.

He wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen in this so called secret society, but he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be good. He leaned back against the window sill, enjoying the soft warmth against his skin. He did want to see more of the world than just this estate though, and if Osred would take him, then he supposed he would have to learn to get along with the other. 

It was going to be awkward, he knew that. How could it not be, when the other man looked at him as if he was dirt under his shoe, but Cash would prevail. If Valos Rehabilitation Center hadn't managed to break him, then Osred wouldn’t stand a chance. He hoped.

That was such a moronic word. Hope.

Hope implied that he had some trust in the other humans, which he didn’t. Oh no, that was one lesson that Valos had managed to teach him. Trusting others was a sure fire way of getting hurt worse than you already would. It would mean that betrayals would hurt more, and deaths would cause stronger emotions. 

Why anyone would bother trusting anyone when it only led to hurt, he didn’t know. That made him, what was the word Vilmos had used, a bit of a skeptic, but he didn’t mind. One didn’t grow up how he did without getting a bit damaged in the process. 

Most of the time, he was trying to push down growing anticipation, but in moments like this, his mind was mostly calm. He wasn’t feeling anything strongly, not really. That didn’t mean his mind was quiet. No, it was still whizzing with ideas and thoughts, but it meant that he didn’t bother staying on a train of thought for longer than it took to catch another. 

That said, he needed to focus a bit, as he was officially now out of the care of the government. Which meant as soon as he stepped out of the Estate, he was likely to be overwhelmed by people. According to Vilmos, everyone was dying to meet the first successful recovered ward of Valos in several decades. He was going to have to get used to being followed by the media.

That was probably another reason that Osred disliked him on sight. The other probably operated in the shadows, which would be difficult to do if the spotlight was shinning on Cashel, who was likely to be with Osred at most times.

He wasn’t sure how either of them would adjust to the things that were going to soon be the norm, but he did know that he was going to be grateful that he couldn't talk soon.

 

Two days later, he wanted to scream. Grateful that he couldn't talk, how moronic was he? After only three hours traveling with Osred, he wanted to stab the man. How was it possible for someone to be so condescending while knowing nothing about the person he was insulting?

It had started innocently enough, with being ushered in a carriage while having to smile and wave at the people watching him. Everyone was talking over the others, and the noise was making his head hurt. 

He wasn’t sure why the reporters assumed he could talk, when everyone else was so sure that he couldn't. It was funny, in a way. After they had started moving, Osred started on him, complaining about everything from the way Cashel was sitting to how he was watching the world with wide eyes as they moved. He had been told several things before, but no one, ever, had bothered telling him what he could and couldn't do with his eyes. 

But, no, apparently his eyes were too green, and his hair was too light of a brown. He wasn’t sure what to do about that, even if he was able to speak. He didn’t even know what color his hair or eyes were, seeing as he had never seen them, but apparently they were offensive to Osred's sensibilities. 

On the other hand, now he knew what his eyes and hair looked like. It probably sounded strange to those on the outside, but any sense of individuality wasn’t allowed in Valos. Their heads were all shaved, rather they were male or female. When it was cut off, they were blinded so they couldn't see, even as it fell. He knew what some of the others looked like with a bit of hair, but never had the words to describe it. Honey brown, apparently, was the word for his hair, and forest green eyes that apparently stared into Osred's soul were words that he had never known. He still didn’t really know what it looked like. 

His hair was growing out, which was a strange thought, but it would be a bit longer before he could actually see it. He wasn’t sure what he would do about his eyes, though. If he could ever see them, then he would. He knew there was still a lot of things that he didn’t know about the outside, and he couldn't wait to figure them out. 

That said, Osred's constant put down about his appearance was slowly driving him insane. He knew he was too thin, and he knew that he wasn’t anywhere near attractive, but that didn’t mean he needed anyone else telling him, especially when it came to rubbing it in. He had long since gotten used to seeing his bones, and while he knew most people thought he was too thin, he refused to feel badly about it. It was a part of him, just like his scars. It was proof of what he had grown up with, and while he preferred to keep his body fully covered so that no one could tell what kind of frame he had, he knew better than to wish he was anything different.

Was it strange? Probably, but he hadn't been out long enough to actually care. 

Not really. 

As long as he didn’t do anything illegal, he didn’t see why anyone cared about what he did. 

He knew that as soon as he calmed down, the man would lose interest, but he couldn't seem to. The guards had done the same thing. He knew the game well enough. That said, he wasn’t sure why he was still reacting. He knew what this was about, the man trying to prove that he was better than Cashel, like he didn’t already know that. Osred had nothing to prove, especially not to him. He knew his place, even if he didn’t like it, he was used to it. Everyone was better than he was, as far as he was concerned. The guards had played this with him and the others, mostly the older kids trying to develop some sense of self that was violently squashed out of them before it could fully form.

Cashel wasn’t an idiot. Every time he had seen someone trying to play this game, he couldn't help but mentally roll his eyes. The funny thing was, no one ever tried to degrade those that were on their level. The Guards had never done this with the other Guards or the Agents. It was only when someone was clearly already above someone else that they felt the need to push them down further.

It didn’t make sense to him. He supposed it might have been something that only those raised outside ever did, but he wouldn’t know. He did know that the other Wards didn’t do this to any of the others. Those who could talk didn’t rub it in the faces of those who couldn't, no matter the age. 

Maybe part of that was how they were raised. Everyone who grew up in the Center knew better than to have delusions of grandeur. They knew they were worthless, replaceable, and only still alive because the Center needed the numbers in order not to get shut down. 

That was a lesson they were all taught when they were still young. He must have been, what, eight or so when they started on him. They either pretended that he didn’t exist, or beat him for no reason that he could figure out. It was just a part of growing up. And he didn’t bother trying to do anything about it. He, like the others, just accepted it and moved on with their lives. What else could they do? They had no power, just like in this situation, he had none. 

The only thing that he didn’t understand was the why. Why did they feel the need to do things like this? Why did people like Osred insist on putting the people beneath them even further down? Just…what was the point? Did they get something out of reminding people that they were lower than the floor, but more useless? At least the floor had a purpose in its creation, to be used to walk on. Most of them weren't even worth that much. 

He knew it, and accepted it. 

Which was why he was so surprised that he even cared. Why did it make him so angry? Was it because it was so strange to think that it happened in the outside world as well? Was it because he had hoped that things would be different in the outside world? Was it because he wasn’t expecting it, or because this was supposed to be his teacher? 

Any way that he looked at it, it was just a useless feeling, and he was disappointed with himself for letting it get as far as it was, as well as letting it bother him so much. It wasn't like he expected the world out here to be different. 

Or maybe, he did. He would never admit it though. 

Which yanked him out of his head. He could dwell on things he couldn't change later, but for now, he was going to enjoy his trip, even if it killed him. 

After deciding that, he settled back in the seat, and glanced out. Even when they were going through the town, there wasn't much there. A few buildings here and there, a tall white gate that made him shiver in the distance, and people. So many people seemed to stop from their daily lives as they passed, and wave. To him or to Osred he didn't know, or care. 

The colors, as bright and strange as they had been, were dulled in comparison to when the buildings were far enough away that he couldn't see them. 

Vibrant yellows, purples, and greens seemed to dominate the world outside the town. It looked untouched by man of any kind, except for the dirt roads. Occasionally, they would pass an old rotting house covered in climbing ivy, or a tower that had crumbled, but those were the only signs of human life. 

It was so strange to think about life before the One Nation, but he knew that with each decimated place they passed, it was the sign of lives that had also passed. 

Most people nowadays lived simple lives, using very little technology in any way. Sure, there were a few exceptions, and they had most of the comforts that the people before them had had but they were, well better.

They didn't harm the planet to almost overheat. They didn't have wars, and famine was easily combated by the other Sectors pulling together,. They weren't so dependent on technology that they couldn't move without it.

Those were just a few of the things that were brought to his attention over the last few weeks. He knew it probably had less to do with truth, and more to do with keeping people content under the rules of the government, but that didn't make it any less strange of a thought. He couldn't imagine looking up onto a sky that was so filled with smaug that people could barely see the sun. He couldn't imagine breathing in all of the harsh chemicals as each independent nation tried to advance quicker than their allies and enemies. 

He couldn't even understand the world before the 2100’s, before the One Nation formed, areas that were too damaged were abandoned, and every other piece of life was torn down, like a faulty tower that would soon fall. He didn't even want to think about it, and not because it sounded so horrible, but because it sounded interesting in a way.

The carriage jerked to a stop, and he looked around the clear carriage top, trying to find out why. Just in sight, on a large hill, was a tilting building that at first glance seemed to be frozen mid fall.

It had to be designed that way, had to look like it was going to tumble over. He could clearly see it in his mind how magnificent it must have been when it was first built. 

The building was white, but covered by ivy and surrounded by trees. Something about it seemed, well forced. His eyes widened. The building had been moved here not built here. That was the only way to still explain the slightly uneven earth.

He wondered where it had been, probably in a Forbidden Zone, and how it had ended up here. In a strange, almost cruel way, he couldn't believe that they hadn't torn it down. But, what did he know?

He was just an ex patient of Valos, and the only things he knew were either from listening when he shouldn't, or a strong curiosity that had gotten him in trouble several times before. 

Osred noticed that his attention had been drawn by the strange building, and kicked him in the leg hard enough to draw his attention back to his teacher. 

“Welcome to the Turning Cards Headquarters.” Osred told him smugly. “You do know what Perfect Humans are, right? Well, be careful what you say, because almost half the people in there are. There's also one Partial Human, but you should stay as far away from it as you can. If she wasn't one of the developers in Partial Human Identification Software, then it would have been killed like most of its brethren years ago. Such useless copies.” The last part was muttered under his breath, so Cashel assumed he wasn't supposed to hear it.

Osred touched a part of the self moving carriage, energy efficient as well as good for keeping privacy, the gardener had told him, and the bubble opened around them. 

It was silent, and if it wasn't for the sudden rush of heat, as well as the slight sparkle in the air as it rolled back Cash wouldn't have seen it at all. He knew it kept the people inside from feeling the effects of the weather, as he had noticed when it had closed over them. He had gone from feeling the warm ray of the sun beat against his body while the slight breeze kept him from overheating, to nothing. He wasn't cold, and he wasn't hot. He could see the sun, even if it looked dim, but he couldn't feel it. 

He also noticed that inside the carriage, sounds from outside seemed, well less. What should have been a stampede of voices as soon as the gates opened was more of a dull roar.

Now that he was thinking about it, he realized how little since the carriage made. To him, of course. To the rest of the world it was probably just another achievement that was, created decades ago but for him well he just wouldn't know. It was interesting though. The technology was going to be something that he could tell that would become an interest for him. 

Osred stepped out of the carriage, leaving the door open, but didn’t wait, walking briskly towards the tilted building. A strange smirk was growing on his face, and Cashel, barely noticing it, felt dread rise in his mind. 

Cash knew that there was something about to happen, but he didn’t know what. His body was tense, even if his neck screamed at him for scanning the horizon. He wondered if the man was the cause or the effect of whatever was happening. 

He mentally rolled his eyes, stepping out a few steps behind his teacher. The man's braid had long since fallen across his back, swaying as he moved. 

This man wasn’t going to kill him, and being paranoid. There were better ways to kill someone than to lead them to a trap. This man wasn’t the trapping type. 

Then again, what did he know about his teacher besides the man killed people, disliked Cashel, and was apparently a talented builder. That was it. Literally. 

Because of caution, he stayed several paces behind Osred. If the man wanted to get someone killed, he would have to try harder than this. It took just over a minute before Osred reached the doors, and he burst through them, letting them hit the wall loudly. 

Cash wanted to wince. Was this man for real? 

Osred dropped to the ground, and Cashel moved to the side, avoiding whatever was whizzing through the air. He turned just enough that it slid past his cheek. Cash felt his eyes narrow. It was a needle, long, about as long as his hand, with a small black tail to help guide it through the wind. 

He wanted to reach out and grab it, before flinging it back, but he knew he was no where near talented enough to pull it off. It didn’t help that he was weaponless. If it was simply a fist fight, Cash knew he could hold his own, after all, he had to for years. But with weapons… 

Truthfully, he knew that his performance with the woman the night of Vladislav's death was a one time show. He knew that if the fight hadn't gone exactly as it had, he would have ended up bleeding to death before he had a chance to do any actual damage. 

That said, he wasn’t moronic. 

He guessed that this was exactly what Osred was expecting, but didn’t warn him about. A woman, blonde curls done up, and light brown doe eyes, came out, holding a box in one hand that was black and a bit longer than the needle she was holding in her other hand.

She sighed. "Idiot always falls for that…" She muttered to herself, before her eyes widened a bit as they landed on him. "Hey, Kalystia, um, we've got a problem…" She yelled over her shoulder.

Another woman came out of the tilting building, kicking Osred in the ribs as she passed him. Her eyebrow raised, once again as she looked at Cash, before rolling her eyes. She was shorter, stouter than the other woman, with short grey hair, an aged face, and wise grey eyes. "You didn’t hear about Ossy's apprentice?" The woman he assumed was Kalystia asked the other woman. "He's been complaining about that for weeks. Honestly, Blodwyn, have you been living under a rock or something?" 

The blonde woman, Blodwyn, pushed a curl out of her face. "Of course I have, Kaly, but I wasn’t expecting Os to bring him here."

"One day," Kalystia told the blonde, "I will find out how you got him to let you call him that." 

Blodwyn laughed. It sounded like the silver bells from the garden to Cash, for some reason. "You'll find out long after you're in the grave, Kaly, long, long after you're dead." 

Now, Cashel didn’t know much about people at all, but he knew better than to mess with anyone about their weight or their age. It was a social no-no that even he had picked up on. One of the cooking staff made a comment to one of the older maids about her age, and the woman had gotten back at him by banning everyone, even him, from the servers wing, saying that there was something wrong with the walls. Everyone else had been moved to some place comfortable. Everyone except the man who had called her old. He had been moved to a closet, saying that he was so young, his body could handle it.

Cashel had spent most of the rest of that week laughing, but he had learned a very important lesson. Never comment about weight or age. 

Kalystia gave the blonde a dirty look, before turning her back on the younger woman, and smiling at Cashel cheerfully. Cashel wanted to wave his arms and yell at them not to drag him into this, but he was frozen. 

"Nice to meet you, laddie. I'm Kalystia, but everyone calls me Kaly. I'm charged with making sure that you all don’t die before your time. That needle- happy idiot is Blodwyn. Please pardon her, she's from Sector O, and you know how those Ottilian's can be, uncivilized and less sane than the average person." 

He hadn't known that, but from the way that Blodwyn was most likely cursing in, what was it called, Olenai, meant that Kalystia was most likely correct. He didn’t know, but he also didn’t mind finding out. Later of course. 

Kalystia kicked Osred again, and Cashel wished, for a moment, that he could switch places with the older woman. He more than agreed that Osred deserved a few good kicks to the ribs. He wouldn’t, of course, but that didn’t make the notion any less tempting.

He waved awkwardly at the two women. Kalystia frowned. 

"This is where you introduce yourself, just so you know." She told him.

He wanted to roll his eyes. Well, yes, he had guessed that, but as it was currently impossible for him to do so, he wasn’t really sure what they were expecting of him. He half wanted Osred to wake up, so that the man could not only take the attention off of him, but so that they would know that he couldn't talk. 

He half wondered if they knew where he was from. If they did, and they expected him to talk, they would have, well they would have been right before he had been intimately introduced to a knife that stole his voice.

He really needed to find a system that let him communicate with others, but he was still unsure about that. Not that he was in a rush. He would need to find someone that was actually worth talking to before he introduced them to his unique, probably, way of communicating. 

They just watched him for another moment, before Kalystia rolled her eyes. "Shy, aren't ya?" He shrugged. He supposed they could say that. "Well, come on, then, I'll show you where you're staying. Blodwyn, wait for the idiot to wake up. He should know where to find his apprentice, seeing as he set it up." 

Kalystia moved around the smaller Blodwyn, and Cashel blinked. Did she really expect him to follow her? Especially when she walked passed a woman who seemed to enjoy stabbing people with needles?

In this case, he knew that being cautious was a better idea than following anyone blindly. So, he shook his head lightly. 

Kalystia didn’t see him, but Blodwyn did. "No? What do you mean no?"

That seemed to surprise Kalystia, who stopped just in view. He swallowed hard, and shook his head again. He wasn’t going to follow some strange people inside anywhere if he didn’t trust them. Nope. That wasn’t going to happen.


	9. Chapter 8

He glanced down at the floor, not hiding his face, but planning. He wasn’t sure why he was always the one who got into situations like this. Why would he? He wasn’t loud, obnoxious, or creepy. Alright, maybe he was the last, but he certainly wasn’t the first two. That said, he was probably fairly close to having the highest rate of kidnapping in the entire group.

In seven months, he had been abducted twenty seven times. He was ninety percent certain that he spent more time in captivity than out of it, but that was alright. He didn’t even like most of the others. That said, there really wasn’t much he could do about the teasing that he was forced to endure in the rare times that he was actually at the base.

Which was completely unfair, seeing as Kalystia had been a part of Turning the Cards for almost forty years, and somehow, she had the least number of attempts on her life. It was completely unfair that his record had passed hers in a month.

The thoughts of the older woman charging at him with duel edged Iron shots slash a sword that was almost twice her height was enough to remind him exactly why no one messed with her. She was scary when she wanted to be. She was also talkative, and had a creepy laugh when she dropped bugs or worse in your food when you least expected it. No, he wouldn’t want to take her either.

No, not even if someone paid him to. He liked his body parts where they were and not thrown all over the ground.

But, alas, even with his pitiful reputation in the building world, he still had more attempts on him than most people. It probably had less to do with his mentor and more to do with his upbringing. He knew that more people were fascinated by him, and the stories he could tell. What they didn’t understand was just because he knew more stories and strange things about the people around him than he wanted to admit, didn’t mean he would say anything.

Not that he could, even if he wanted to. A part of him recognized these attempts as reactions based in fear, but more of him was just annoyed. He could defend himself. He could break himself out. But he wasn’t allowed to. It wasn’t like anyone else was expected to follow the same hostage rules.

Oh no, Osred could protect himself, because it was expected of the man with the nasty attitude. Blodwyn could. Even Cadis was expected to protect herself. But no, not him. It didn’t matter that his body was starting to bulk up because of the heavy lifting he was forced to do on the days out with Osred. It didn’t matter that Blodwyn and several others beat him up regularly in an attempt to train him. It certainly didn’t matter that he had been fighting for as long as he could remember.

That said, he couldn't help but wonder where Osred and Terina were being held. Were they left behind at the estate? He doubted it, it wasn’t logical to take a hostage without having a way to control them. Not that they exactly needed one, what with the P.H. roaming the lab.

He had guessed it was a lab anyway. The few times he had seen anyone since he had awoken, they were dressed in pure white, controlling hovering clip boards with one hand while taking his blood with the other.

He was a bit surprised he hadn't bled out yet, with all the blood he was missing. That said, they were careful, meticulous, and clearly knew what they were doing. Which, he thought bitterly, made one of them. He had no idea what they wanted with him, or why they were taking his blood. It didn't make sense, not like anything on the outside ever did.

Cashel was content to admit that he was getting restless. He had been since he had woken up, and wanted nothing more than to get free and sneak out, but he couldn't. Not until he knew where the other two had ended up.

No. He was stuck in a chair, with his wrists starting to ache from the duct tape holding them behind his back, his backside numb, and his mind bored. Duct tape. Of all the things they were using to hold him hostage, it was duct tape and a locked door.

He wondered if this would have been enough to hold anyone. They hadn't bothered searching him at all, and they had long since left him alone. If he really wanted out of there, he would have left a trail of bodies leading towards the door, but no. He had to be good and wait for rescue, at least until he had a better idea of why they took him in the first place.

He really hoped whoever came to get him didn’t bring Osred. The man wouldn’t let him live it down. Then again, Osred never let him live anything down. Or, at least, he was never allowed to forget anything. On the other hand, he had seen Osred taken out without even being touched, and he had been taken down before even Councilman Tynan's daughter. If that wasn’t something he could use, then…

Well, it wasn’t like he was going to forget any time soon.

The only problem was, well, Cashel let these things happen to him. He wasn’t stupid enough to actually screw up on accident, especially not when he could help it, or in front of others. No, every expression that he had on his face had been practiced. Every widening of his eyes, tilt of his head, pull of his lips, everything was on purpose.

That said, he wasn’t perfect, he did screw up more often than he cared to admit, but he wasn’t exactly as stupid as everyone thought he was. Just because he couldn't talk didn’t mean he couldn't hear. He wasn’t sure if being deaf would keep him from being affected by the P.H. and their powers. It was a little embarrassing that he had to stay here, but until he knew either where the hostages were, if they had any, or what they wanted, well…

He was good at playing innocent, he could fool most people, but he wasn’t sure how well he could measure up to a Perfect Human. He knew that they could hear his every heart beat, smell every drop of sweat that his body produced, and see every unintentional twitch of his body. It was disturbing how much they could ruin his perfectly created mask.

But, this, like everything else that he was stuck with in his reputation, just meant that he was going to have a harder time shifting the reputation when he finally decided to. If he decided to. He didn’t really mind that much when everybody thought he was just another useless, stupid airhead, and the longer he was living under the façade, the easier it became to keep up.

That said, it was humiliating just sitting there like an idiot waiting for someone to finally come and get him. If he knew Osred at all, he knew that the man would wait until the last second to actually tell anyone that he was gone. If, of course, the man knew he was gone if in the first place. He hoped the man had the intelligence to remember that, no, he hadn't been alone with Turem Terina, and yes, there had been someone else there.

If, of course, the man wasn’t waiting for him to come and rescue him in another room.

Though, if he was lucky, someone would have seem him getting kidnapped, but he doubted it. Firstly, the people out here seemed to think that crime was something that didn’t exist. Why would it? After all, people were scanned at birth to weed out the future criminals. And second, only two people would have noticed if he was gone, and both of them could be cooling corpses by now. There were too many unknowns to act yet.

But he could be patient.

What they didn’t seem to realize was, if the Future Picture worked the way that they thought it did, then, maybe they would be right. But it didn’t. Nowhere near that actually. He wouldn’t have ever known any better if Cadis didn’t let him in on the secret. If it hadn't been for her, he would never have known the truth, or actually thought to question anything.

He wasn’t really sure how long he had been stuck here, sitting in this stupid wooden chair, but he did know that it was long enough for him to lose feeling in part of his hands, feet, and he honestly didn’t know how much longer he was going to be able to wait, until he killed them out of sheer boredom.

That said, he was getting fairly close to that point. If another scientist came in and took another vial of his blood, he was going to force it down their throat. Was that gross? Yes, but it was something to do, and it served them right for tying him up in the first place. If they happened to choke on the glass, well that wasn’t exactly his fault.

No one who had been kidnapped as many times as he was could possibly tell him off for it either.

The door opened again, and he mentally sighed. A piece of cloth was shoved in his mouth, which was stupid in his mind because it wasn’t like he could say anything. A syringe was taken out of a white pocket.

His eyes widened slightly. This one wasn’t like the others. This one was full of a glowing green and silver liquid. The doctor flicked it a few times, and set it on a tray that had been wheeled in beside him. Another syringe was taken out, this one with a dull red liquid that was too dark to be his blood, flicked a few times, before it was shoved easily into his arm.

He hissed as it was unloaded into his blood stream, and if he could have screamed, he would have. It was lighting his nerves on fire as it spread through his blood. He jerked roughly in the restraints, tearing the tape, before his body froze.

His mind sped up. His body couldn't move. Whatever the man had injected into him stopped his body from responding to his brain. His body fell limply back in the wooden chair, and he couldn't understand what was going on, but a picture was starting to form in his mind behind the haze of pain. This was going to hurt. 

Cashel knew he should have left when he had the chance.

After a few moments, the pain dulled to a more manageable level, assuring him that he could still feel his limbs, even if he couldn't move them. He knew exactly how to push the pain back, even if he was a bit out of practice.

The scientist picked up the glowing one next, and simply looked down at him, waiting for something. Cash wasn’t sure what, but clearly the other saw whatever they were looking for. The scientist nodded to themselves, gesturing in a few sharp movements and saying a few words that he couldn't understand.

That did tell him something, though. He certainly wasn’t in Sector T any more, nor was he back in Sector V. Well, he thought as his mind twitched, that narrowed it down from twenty- six possible places to twenty- four. He hadn't spent enough time around people from the other sectors to be able to recognize the accent.

The scientist's face was completely void of emotion as they lifted his arm and lined up the syringe with his vein. It was pushed in, decompressed, and pulled smoothly back out before he had time to blink. His mind had already been speeding up thanks to the first injection.

If the first one felt like fire was rushing through his veins, this one felt like acid was disintegrating his organs and they were trying to rebuild. The pain was so intense that he almost passed out. He couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't clench his jaw or hands to distract himself. He was stuck, and somehow, that made everything ten times worse.

He was used to pain, how could he not be with how he had grown up, but this… this was on a completely different level. He wasn’t sure how to respond, or how to hide away from a pain that seemed to eat his very brain.

His body jerked once, and he was left alone with the gag being removed as an almost forgotten movement. His own screams echoed in his head, and his stomach rebelled against him. He couldn't move, but he knew the second he could, he would be sick.

A very small part of his mind kept a careful watch on the time. What felt like an eternity later, he was able to curl up his body slightly as he threw up all over his lap. The bile burned his throat and mouth, tears ran down his face, but he couldn't make it stop. He tried closing his mouth, hoping to be able to breath, but he choked and ended up gagging harder. He tried to remember that he had to breath, but it was hard to think of anything else other than the burning pain of his body.

Thankfully, he was alone when he finally was able to calm his body down several minutes later. He needed to get out of there.

His whole body was shaking, and his lap was still warm with the bile and little bit of food he had eaten earlier. The smell was probably one of the worst part, second only to the feel of panic clouding his mind. He needed to get somewhere safe, but he didn’t have the strength to even pull the last of the restraints from his arms. He was hurting, badly, and wasn’t sure what he could do.

Even if he could gather the strength he needed in his arms, he wasn’t sure he could stand up. His whole body was exhausted, and he was having to fight to keep his eyes open. He tried, he really did, but he was too weak, too tired, to be able to do anything more than let his head fall back against the wood, and hope that as soon as he woke up, he would feel better. He doubted it, but then again, he knew that the moment he gave up, he wouldn’t ever leave.

Valos hadn't been able to break him, the outside hadn't either, but these people? He wasn’t sure what he could do. This wasn’t a physical punishment, like the whippings he was so used to, or the starvation, or really even the isolations he was starting to hate from the others in the Turning the Cards. Somehow, the thought of losing his mind to this, to his own body, was unacceptable. This wasn’t going to break him.

He hoped.

He would give them a bit of credit, though, whatever they had given him had messed with his mind, making it almost impossible for him to block out the pain. That was probably the most effective thing anyone could have done. They cut him off from his logic, made sure he couldn't move, and made it so that he would have torn off his own skin if he thought that it had a chance of getting the pain to stop. He knew it wouldn’t though. He had enough of his mind to know that hurting himself wouldn’t do anything. He also knew that if he had the strength, he would have done it anyways. His very strength seemed to drain out of his bones, and by the time the pain lightened up enough for him to be able to get used to it, not only was he a sweating, shaking mess, but he was also more wild than he could ever remember being.

That said, he wasn’t sure what more he could do, or for that matter, what he wanted to do. The moment he let himself get lost in the haze of pain was the moment he lost more than just his pride. He couldn't accept that. He wouldn’t.

He would get out of here. He wasn’t sure how, or when, but he could bide his time until he knew more. Once he did, planning an escape would be easy enough.

His eyes slipped closed and he finally calmed his racing chest. He hurt, that was something that he was just going to have to put up with though. It wasn’t unbearable anymore. It had faded, or maybe his nerves had been burned and he lost feeling. He wiggled his toes and bit down roughly on his tongue as pain seared through his leg.

Moving? Yeah, that wasn’t a good idea. He hoped that when he woke he would feel better. With that, his green eyes stayed closed, and he didn’t open them for a long while.

Once he did, though, he was both surprised and annoyed with himself. He had been stripped to his underclothes and moved until he was shackled down on a metal table. From the feel of it against his back, he hadn't been there long. It was still abnormally cold, causing goose bumps to rise on his skin. He let out a breath, and it showed in mist from his mouth.

This was going to be a long few days… 

He wasn’t sure what had woken him at first, if the move didn’t, but at the same time, he was grateful for it. From the aches and sharp pains that that went through him as soon as he moved, he hadn't been out for nearly long enough. That was alright though. While he still felt like if he moved too much he would turn to ash, it wasn’t as bad as it had been. 

It probably had something to do with how little he actually moved when he was asleep. He had heard Osred muttering to himself several times about how strange he was when he managed to get some sleep. He was, to quote the other, unnaturally still when sleeping.

He wouldn’t ever tell the other man exactly why he was such a light and still sleeper. No, there were things that no one beside him needed to hear. He wondered if Osred had noticed he was gone yet, but with the builder focused on the Sector J and their Councilman's request for a new estate, well, the other had barely had time to breath. 

Cashel had been just about as busy, handling several secret projects to keep them off Osred's shoulders. He wasn’t sure if the other recognized that Cashel had moved from a confused apprentice to a silent partner, but his own name, and disability, were more commonly heard.

That didn’t mean the two got along. He assumed it had something to do with both his appearance, which he could admit was fairly childlike and emasculated, especially when they first met, and his lack of vocal cords that worked. Osred knew he wasn’t stupid, or weak, logically anyways. That didn’t mean that the man thought of him as an adult. 

He was twenty two, and despite everything, still fairly innocent about the outside world. He knew that most people didn’t know what to do with him and underestimated him because of it. 

Cash knew that the scientist probably had fallen into the same trap as everyone else did. He understood why, of course, and for once, he was happy about it. They thought it would take far less to break him than it actually did. 

The door opened, and the same scientist as before came in. The man was dressed in pure white with rectangular wire glasses and a mask covering the lower part of his mouth. His hair was thick, short, and black, while his eyes were an unfeeling green that was, weirdly enough, fairly close to his own color. 

Both syringes were taken out, the green and silver one catching his attention more than before, as well as another needle, one with an empty vial for his blood. He knew exactly what he was in for this time, and he wasn’t sure if that would make things easier or more difficult. Because he knew the amount of pain that was soon to overtake his body, it was easier to try and mentally prepare for it, but at the same time, just looking at it was enough to make the acid burn through his veins once again.

First, his blood was drawn, and he wanted to pass out. He had already been losing more blood than he should have, and was weaker than he should be because of it. He wanted to turn away as it was pushed into his skin, but he didn’t. The sight of his own blood leaving his body was enough to make his stomach turn. 

It didn’t make sense though. He had stabbed enough people, stitched up enough wounds, and been hurt enough times that the sight of blood no longer even bothered him. It had, when had still been young enough that the Agents had to be careful with him. He had outgrown it soon enough.

Maybe it was more because he didn’t know what they were doing with his blood that it disturbed him as much as it did. He couldn't understand what the injections were for, nor did he understand why they were doing this in the first place. 

A question pushed into his mind, and he tried to ignore it. What were they trying to accomplish with this? What exactly were they thinking was going to happen to him? Was this for torture purposes only? No, it couldn't have been. If it was, then why would they draw his blood so often?

Casually, almost carelessly, the first syringe was injected into his arm, making him shove away the thought. The scientist watched him closely, probably waiting for him to not be able to move anymore, before making a note. Once again, his body burned, this time, though, it was more of a numbing sensation, like his limbs were falling asleep at the same time. While it was still uncomfortable, and slowly getting hotter, it wasn’t nearly as bad as the last time.

A whimper caught his attention from the corner, and the scientist simply walked over to the corner, kicking the covered cage roughly, before the noise stopped. Cashel wasn’t sure how he hadn't noticed it before, possibly because it blended in with the room, possibly because he had other things to worry about, but now that it had drawn his attention, he was curious. 

Not that it was a big surprise. 

He usually left things alone, not having the same insatiable need to understand everything around him that some people, cough Osred cough, sometimes struggled with. It probably had less to do with not being naturally curious, and more to do with Valos. 

Asking questions wasn’t allowed, and, maybe, he would have been a little less, well, interested if they had answered him, but that was alright. He had learned independence from it, needing to rely on himself. Once he was out of Valos, he was too busy trying not to die to focus on things that he didn’t have to know. 

The scientist walked calmly back over to Cashel, and flicked the syringe once, twice, three times, before sliding it into his skin. Almost as soon as the liquid was injected, he was lost in pain again. 

His mouth opened in a silent scream as his body twisted and turned as much as he could move. He knew that moving would help, and so would screaming, but it wouldn’t make them leave him alone.

This time was worse than the last. His throat and neck burned worse than the time that Osred accidently shot him in the foot with a Fire Iron Shot. This zapped every bit of strength from his bones while simultaneously making him feel like he was suffocating due to screaming. It felt like his neck was being incinerated more and more with every beat of his heart. He wished, for a moment, that his heart would stop, if only because then the liquid would be stuck and not traveling through him. 

He knew that wouldn’t do anything though, as his whole body burned. The most he could move was a single twitch of his right pinky finger, and even that was feeling heavier than usual. 

He knew that even with the first injection preventing him from moving, his body was shaking, sweating, and flinching with every attempt at an inhale. His vision was starting to black out once again as he fought to breathe through the screaming and weight in his chest. 

He wasn’t sure how much more he could handle without his body bursting into flame. Desperately, he closed his mouth, biting down roughly on his tongue. His mind cursed. He clearly didn’t think that through. Blood filled his mouth, and he couldn't make himself swallow through the pain. Every single movement hurt, and he just wanted it to stop.

But it wouldn’t.

It would always hurt. He would always be in some kind of pain. He knew that not everyone wanted to hurt him, but enough people did that it was impossible for him to go more than a week without someone hurting him.

Even in the Turning the Cards headquarters he wasn’t safe. Every single person there had stabbed, shot, burned, or sliced him, even Cadis who wasn’t considered a person by the rest of the people in the guild, and Osred, the one person that was supposed to guide him into a new life.

Ever since he could remember, people wanted to hurt him, and he had never understood why, but then again, he had never really blamed them for it. If people were hurting him, then they couldn't hurt the children. He had been putting himself in harm's way to keep the younger ones safe ever since he could remember.

No one bothered looking out for him, so he promised himself, even before he knew what the word meant, that he would never allow pain to come to anyone that he could protect. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, but he had always tried.

But that? Hurting for someone's sake? That was different than what he was currently living.

This was pain for the sake of pain, and somehow, that just made it worse.

He could hear someone talking to him, a woman with a voice that reminded him of the wind, trying to calm him after a few minutes, but he couldn't pinpoint the sound.

The black overtook him soon after, not soon enough in his mind. Even in the darkness of his mind he couldn't hide from the pain. He could feel it as easily as he could feel his heart beating or his lungs breathing. It hurt more than he wanted to admit, but that, somehow, was comforting in the depths of his mind.

He had known his limits. How could he not after the regular whippings that he had experienced, but this? This shattered every expectation he had ever had for himself.

A part of him was tired, and just wanted to fall deeper into his mind and never wake up. He wanted that too, but a smaller part, barely a whisper in his mind, reminded him of Cadis and Terina. He needed to get to them, make sure they were safe.

He fought as hard as he could to wake up, but every time the pain disaffiliated enough for his brain to be able to handle it, a set of pinches in his arm brought them back. Again and again, he was brought further and further to the edge of sanity. Again and again, he managed to claw his way towards consciousness before he was pushed back again.

After a few days, according to his mental clock, of this, he started to learn the pattern. Every two or so hours, his blood would be drawn, and the pain would start. Every other session he was almost drowned as water was forced into his mouth.

It took almost the entire two hours for the pain to recede enough for him to even be able to think about waking up.

He had almost managed to wake up fully twice now, but each time sent him throwing up from the pain and screaming as he tore his older wounds open. But, each time, he got closer and closer to being able to think again. He knew it was only a matter of time before he adjusted to it enough that he could manage to get away, but that would take time.

He didn’t want to think about what might be happening to the other two, should they have been grabbed at the same time as he was. He knew that Osred was strong, but the other wasn’t nearly as adaptable as he was. And Terina? She was the Councilman's daughter. Well, the old Councilman's daughter. She had never worked a day in her life before his death, and he if there was anyone he wasn’t sure could survive something like this, it was her.

She wasn’t exactly what he would call strong, mentally or physically. She was smart, he had seen it in her eyes from the moment they met. That said, she wasn’t adaptable and was more likely to be either too mouthy, and therefore killed, or too weak to survive the first session.

But he? He could manage. No, he would get out of here. No ought to, possibly will. He would. Soon enough, his mind would fully emerge from its hiding spot, and he would be able to get away.

Sure, his limbs felt extremely heavy, when he could actually feel them, and his body either ached when he stayed still or burned when he moved, but he would do this. He didn’t have a choice in the matter.

If Valos Rehabilitation Center hadn't killed him in twenty- one years, then they wouldn’t be able to do so either. He would be bent, but not broken, and that was all that mattered.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is my longest chapter in this entire book! It's over 6k! We're also getting to the end of this adventure, or at least the first book of two in this series! Enjoy everyone!

They walked calmly through the city of Glass. It was one of those places he had heard about from Osred. The other had criticized while trying to figure out how the buildings were still standing. Sector Z and their glass buildings were known by all who built anything. It was almost scary, he thought as he walked through the maze of buildings. Everybody could see everything. It was disturbing.

He knew that in most places, privacy was something that simply didn't exist. It was something only the deluded believed in. The One Nation saw everything. Here, they weren't even given the ability to pretend.

He could see people changing through the glass walls, and he carefully averted his eyes. Glass, as a building substance, wasn't the most sturdy of things. Usually, one good kick and it shattered, but not here.

Their glass was specially made in a secret workshop on the outskirts of Sector Z, and created so that every bit of it could withstand far more than even most steel. That didn't mean it was invincible. Steel could bend without breaking, stone could dent without falling to dust, but glass shattered.

It would be so much more difficult to fix their buildings than it would any other building in most of the other Sectors. There were exceptions, of course, The Councilman's home, the Governor's estate, and all One Nation buildings were made with opaque glass. Impossible to see in or out of, but it caused the illusion of openness that most people believed.

He wasn't sure how, or why they were so gullible, but he knew it wasn't his place to question things like this. That said, he wasn't going to deny that he was curious. He knew that as a member of Turning the Cards, he was a government worker, but he also knew that he and the others didn't officially exist in any way other than as builders, or whatever the covers were. Cadis didn't exist at all out of the building, and while it annoyed him, she was more than content with it.

He hadn't understood why at first.

He did now.

Walking beside Zephira, no matter how beautiful she was, made him receive glares. Her hair wasn't normal, and that was enough for most people to be able to guess what she was. He knew that most people saw Partial Human's as failed experiments that needed to be put down, but he didn't agree. They, unlike Perfect Humans, started the same way that any Normal Human did, as a bunch of cells multiplying.

In those moments, they were just as human as he had been, or as any of them were.

It wasn't like they asked to be turned into what they were, but that didn't stop the hatred. The eyes on her were worse, because she was a Partial, and they were given plenty of room to move around. The eyes on him were a bit different though. While she was being looked at with disgust and hatred, he was being watched with betrayal and hurt.

Zephira acted like she didn't care, or notice, but even Cash could tell that she hated it. There was only so much they could do though. He wanted to ask her to wear a head scarf, or maybe even tuck her hair back in the white coat, but he couldn't do that to her. Just because he was uncomfortable didn't excuse him trying to change her.

An hour passed, and they exchanged looks. It wasn't going to be safe for either of them in a few more minutes. He knew that they needed to get as far away from Sector Z's Glass City in as little time as possible.

He glanced around, waiting for the crowds to thicken, and walked calmly over to a bubble carriage. He picked the lock as quickly as he could, and gestured for Zephira to get in on the other side.

Once they both were inside, he turned it on, and directed it away from the city. It was going to be a long drive, but he knew the coordinates of where they were going.

They were going to the Turning the Cards base.

Zephira had, strangely enough, not said a single word since they had gotten out. He wasn't sure if it was because she was trying to process what had happened, or if she simply didn't want to talk. He enjoyed the silence, so he left her to her thoughts.

It was almost a hundred and eighty degree shift in her personality. In the lab, she wouldn't shut up, and kept telling him things that he didn't need to know, but once they were out of her comfort zone, she clammed up.

He understood, though. He hadn't exactly been in a talkative mood when he had gotten out of Valos. Then again, she had memories of before the Lab, and knew what things were like on the outside. He never had that. He had only known Valos.

He wasn't sure how he would have been reacting if it had been him instead. He wasn't sure if he could have managed living in a world that was as colorless as Valos after knowing the vibrancy of the outside.

In fact, he knew she was adapting much easier than he would have. Maybe it had something to do with being able to breath in the fresh air, or the silence, but his body relaxed against the seat.

His head stretched back slightly, exposing his neck as he rested it against the seat.

She was trying really hard not to stare at his neck. He understood why, of course. It wasn't a pretty scar. It wasn't smooth, or even, and it wasn't faded to white just yet. No, it was rough, parts of his neck were uneven because some of the skin had been torn off by the knife. It was a deep, jagged scar that was inflamed. He could feel the slight heat from it, and tried to hope that it wasn't infected. Again.

That was probably the most annoying part of the entire process of healing. If he stayed still and calm, it would have healed completely by now. But, as it was, his stitches had been torn out several times, and being a hostage meant that no one was exactly in the mood to rub the scar reducer on his skin. The high collar of the clothing that he had learned to prefer meant that less attention was drawn to it.

It was funny, in a strange way. Most people who had heard of him assumed his inability to speak was a result of Valos, not the attack. Very few people even knew he had been there when Vladislav died in the first place.

No one, even those who knew he had been there, guessed that the knife that killed the Councilman also stole his voice away. He remembered hearing that his vocal cords would probably heal, if he didn't stress them, but after the last infection, he knew that it wouldn't happen.

He wasn't ever going to get his voice back. It was a strange thought, but he didn't mind most of the time, he had learned how to communicate with most people without a voice. He could still work, still be respected, and still function in normal society.

That didn't mean he wasn't overly aware that there was a very good chance of him being taken back to Valos because of his disability if the wrong people found out about his neck.

Physical handicaps were looked down on like most unnatural things. He had always been grateful that he wasn't disfigured or sicker than he should be. If he had been, he would have been killed, Future Picture or not. It made sense, of course. The weak and injured were the least productive members of society, and thus, a waste of resources.

He was a slightly different case. Being raised as a member of Valos practically guaranteed that he wouldn't be able to talk. Not because there was anything wrong with him, but because they weren't taught how to talk. If he had, say, been born without vocal cords, he would have been killed. As it was, he could still heal from his injury, and because of that, they wouldn't put him down. Probably.

That didn't mean he was used to displaying his scar. The less people that knew he had it, the less people there were to question how he got it, and thus, the less chance of someone else overhearing something he didn't want them to.

Having Zephira staring at his neck felt really awkward though. Obviously, people would be curious. The only reason Osred hadn't been was because the other man had most likely seen the bandage changed over the first couple of days that he didn't wake up. Cadis would probably stare, except he usually had something in the way of people being able to see it.

He really wanted to pop his collar up and block her view of the ugly scar. It would have been easy enough to do so, probably glare at her as well, but he wouldn't. That would mean admitting that he had a weakness. Physical weakness was something that was an unfortunately a part of his existence, but psychological weakness was something that he didn't want to put up with.

He couldn't make himself want to get anywhere but here, so he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to relax a bit. His muscles were bunched and knotted. He rolled his shoulders, sighing at the series of pops that made him relax a bit. Finally, he was free, and heading back to check on Osred and Terina.

If they weren't there…

If they weren't there, he was going to track them down and suffocate them for wasting his time. Hopefully, he hadn't been gone long enough someone would have noticed. Well, Cadis probably would have, because she was the only person he willingly spent time with. Osred too, most likely, if only because his paperwork would have piled up. Maybe Terina too, if only because she enjoyed wasting his time.

He glanced out the windows to watch the rolling hills.

A part of him screamed in warning, but he ignored it. If worse came to worse, he could take Zephira. He would never tell anyone what had happened to him inside that lab, never use the gift, and he would never, ever willingly admit what the scientists had done had almost broken him. No, his lack of voice was something that he was going to rely on to keep himself from wanting to talk.

The carriage shook, the clear top shuddered, the controls stopped.

Cash looked around, trying to figure out what had happened. He knew they had crossed into a forbidden Zone, which made sense because he programmed in a short cut that would take them across the boundaries of Z and cut across to T, where he could circle around to V. It was an easy enough plan. He knew that very few people were allowed to travel on the Forbidden Zones. He didn't really mind though, that he was doing something illegal.

How could he? He had broken out a Partial Human from a government facility, killed several workers, and stolen a bubble carriage. Honestly, he doubted that it was a government item that had stopped him, if he was being honest.

If it was, then it would have been a guild like Turning the Cards. Simply put, if that was the case, they were dead sooner rather than later.

Most people would have been tempted to leave the bubble carriage, but he knew better. The moment he stepped out, he would have been shot down. They were clever, he could admit that, but it didn't stop him from being able to see the four shadows surrounding him in the valley.

If he could curse, he would have. This wasn't good. This was the opposite of good.

Well, he thought bitterly, he know knew exactly who they were. They, most likely, belonged to the Emperor's Army, a group that believed that the current Councilman of Sector Z was some kind of ruler with no one above him at all.

He only knew about them because Kalystia had warned all of those who left the base that they were not only trying to kill all the other government officials, but, those who worked anywhere in the One Nation. They believed that Sector Z was a sacred place, and the man who ruled it was the only person that could possibly save them from the rest of the One Nation.

It was utter stupidity, but, sadly, they were good. They didn't have an official death on their shoulders, thanks to the so called Emperor of Z, but unofficially, they had taken probably almost a thousand lives thus far.

And they weren't done. Oh no, they had more to kill, more to slaughter, and each of them was trained in the old ways.

Logically, he couldn't understand why they thought this was a good idea. He knew it had something to do with the population numbers starting to rise, but as far as he understood, it was a good thing.

In World War IV, the population had dropped from around 7 billion people to just over 200 thousand. By the time the fifth World War ended, and the One Nation was established, just over half the people had been killed fighting for something that no one could actually remember.

It wasn't a bad thing though, with so much of the earth being a toxic wasteland, they only had access to about 11% of the possible land. It wasn't connected, technically, but he knew that if the number of people had been much higher than the 100 thousand people they now had, there wouldn't be enough room for any of them.

Human kind had rebuilt, been given a new age, Egressus est Ignis, or the E.I. Age. They hadn't had any type of war since the One Nation had taken power. Most people didn't even want to wonder what would have happened if the One Nation didn't take over. He wanted to, he just didn't care enough. He didn't want to be drafted in a war, he didn't want to live in a world where the crime rate was so high, where people like that were allowed to live and flourish.

No, that wasn't what he wanted, so he tried to ignore the whole A.D. era, as well as the B.C. crap. If it wasn't for the One Nation taking power, he was sure that there wouldn't be any humans left in the world.

The Emperor wanted to wipe out everyone that didn't belong to Sector Z, or at the very least, enslave them all and make sure they knew that they were nothing more than foot stools. He couldn't understand how the Emperors Army would be able to fight for the man. He knew that belief could be a strong thing, but he knew that he would rather fight in a secret war than let the public have to fight against others.

It was disturbing what these people did to those they killed. They beheaded them, and put their heads on spears before parading them around the city.

Cash knew that most of them probably thought that they heads were fake, symbols of what they would do to their enemies. But, in his mind, Sector Z needed to be isolated until their poisons ideals were dropped. They needed to be dealt with before they could hurt other people. But no, they had been given the order to stay away.

If the people from Sector Z knew who they had in their grasps…

If they knew he was from Sector V, things would get messy. Especially if they somehow knew that he was a part of Turning the Cards. That would just… no, he wouldn't allow that. Not if he had anything to say about it.

If worse came to worse, he could rig something to explode and take all of them out. It would kill him and Zephira, but that was a kinder fate than what they would do to her. A quick fiery death was preferable to a slow, drawn out one.

That said, he knew better than to think that they could get out of this unscratched. Zephira was questioning him, but he ignored her. If she couldn't see the danger, than she didn't deserve to know. At least for now.

He opened a panel on the inside of the carriage, and wanted to hit his head. Somehow, they had managed to get the power crystal, which wasn't a crystal, but a solidified version of lightning and wind that was able to power things.

Wait, lightning…? He glanced at his hand, and slowly lowered it to the electric blue crystal. He knew this was stupid, the crystals had to be handled with extreme caution, but he was out of ideas. Besides, if it exploded, then the Emperor's Army wouldn't get their hands on them.

He couldn't afford to wait, and sparked a small current on his finger tips. He gently moved closer, not enough to touch, but for the bolt to catch on the magnetic strip next to the crystal.

Somehow, someway, he had managed to start it.

Even as it came to life under his hands, he knew better than to think that this would be enough. He blew out a sharp breath in annoyance. If they were who he thought they were, then just having a bubble carriage wasn't going to be enough.

For that matter, how had they known he would come this way? Were they looking out for him and Zeph specifically? If not, it was a big coincidence that they just so happened to find two people on the run.

He had learned long ago that there was no such thing as a coincidence. There were, however, such things as an ambush, and this fit the definition perfectly in his mind. Tracking maybe? He knew that Sector Z was obsessed with keeping an eye on every single person that passed through their walls.

He wanted to hit himself. How had he not thought to search the carriage for trackers? The one time he bothered trying to trust humanity, and it does this. He gestured with his shoulder for Zephira to take the controls, and she paled a bit.

"You want me to take off the automatic controls?" She asked, clearly confused. He rolled his eyes. Well, if he could steer and power the crystal at the same time, he would, but he wasn't good enough for that. Nowhere near. He, personally, thought he was doing pretty good for someone that had never driven a carriage before, and he hadn't fried them yet.

He was still mostly convinced that these powers were temporary, and if they were, then he had no problem using them until they ran out. As long as he didn't blow himself up in the process, he considered it a pass.

That said, trying to keep a small, but steady stream of electricity going from his hand to the crystal without overloading it, or him, and blowing up it, and himself, was a lot harder than he had ever thought.

Sweat beaded on his brow, and he closed his eyes to keep from letting it distract himself.

This was a bit of a mess. He snorted silently. A bit? This was going to end in death unless he was extremely careful, and more than a bit lucky. Cashel knew that he had been extraordinarily lucky so far, even if it was hard to imagine. He had been able to get out of Valos, gain a name, discover his own preferences in colors and in weapons, heck, he had made a friend in Cadis. He had done more than he had ever even dared to dream of.

But he couldn't let himself die just yet. He needed to show both Cadis and Zephira that there was more to life than being stared at and tortured. He needed to help Osred relax a bit, unless the man didn't want to survive for the next ten years. He needed to help Kalystia disappear, so that she could finally retire.

Well, the last one was more of a personal goal than something he absolutely had to do. He knew that Kalystia was both bored with their lifestyle, and not as young as she used to be. He felt bad for the woman, not that he would ever admit it. Maybe he would give her a chance to 'die' the next time they were both at headquarters. He needed to do something to get her out of his hair.

That was such a strange expression. …and, of course, he was trying to distract himself. He opened his eyes and peered over at Zephira, before glancing up. He cringed as she almost hit a bolder.

He got his free hand, and yanked the controls to the left. He was rougher than he probably should have been, but he didn't have time for injuries. He sighed again.

"I don't want to drive." He heard her mutter.

He wanted, at that point, to throw her out of the bubble carriage and make her walk. He wasn't exactly pleased by her unique driving abilities, but it was either this, or die. As it was, he had too much to do to die here, in the Forbidden Zone.

Cashel knew because of her supposed superiorities in reaction times, she could be a good driver, but he had forgotten one thing, she wasn't sure how to attach her reflexes to her brain. Her body seemed to move without her permission, and as soon as she noticed it, she stopped it. It didn't make sense to him, who worked with his reflexes for hours at a time, trying to make up for his physical weaknesses.

He wanted to offer to switch places with her, but he didn't. He stayed still, keeping his eyes carefully on their surroundings, and slowly, too slowly for his liking, cut off the power supply until it stuttered to a halt again.

There was something out here. No, that wasn't right. There was someone out here. Several someone's, he couldn't help but notice.

He grit his teeth, and pulled Zephira down to crouch beside him. Three people were clearly in charge of two more. The two had the same collars around their necks, and their shackles were connected to the other.

He glanced around. Where were the so called Emperor's army now? They were useless, of course, and Cashel knew that their solution, instead of rescuing the two, would have been to put an Iron Shot in their heads.

Part of him couldn't help but wonder why there were so few of them. If they were slaves and their traders, which from the looks of it, they were, then where was the rest of them.

From the groups he had busted before, there were usually ten to fifteen slaves for every two or three traders. The collars around their necks could have been something to inhibit movement, but somehow, he had a feeling that he knew exactly who they were. Partial Humans.

He ground his teeth again. If he left the two, they would probably live a worse life for the next few months, before being killed by their so called masters. He wondered what kind of slaves they were, but in the end, not even Zephira tugging on his arm was enough to keep him from wanting to save them.

He pulled away from her, and carefully, quietly, opened the bottom hatch that all bubble carriages had, in case of emergencies. This counted, he assumed. He landed with an almost silent thump, his hand already in his pocket to grab his bow. He laid down on the earth, far enough away that they weren't likely to hear the light clicks of the bow sliding into place, but close enough that he could take them out without a problem. He lined up an arrow, and waited for just the right moment. He knew his timing had to be perfect, or he would end up getting the two killed.

Rocks dug into his stomach, but he didn't mind. His breathing was light and shallow. If they looked in his direction, the top of the bow would be obvious, but the chances of them being able to identify the weapon was smaller than most.

Once the first slave trader, followed by the second, then third, came into view, he fired three nonlethal shots. They would end up dead in the next few minutes, but he wanted to stop them and see what the so called slaves would do. It was enough, he knew that. He just hoped that he hit the right targets.

All three collapsed with arrows through their shoulders within seconds. He knew that if he had a choice, he would have left them alive until he knew whatever sins they had committed. But, this wasn't a perfect world.

To his surprise, the slaves didn't move. They looked around, almost as if they were hoping he would shoot them next. They didn't seem to care about the moans of pain from the traders bleeding out next to their feet. They didn't hurt them. For that matter, the two simply ignored them.

It was strange, but he wasn't sure he would have been so kind. He knew that if he had been next to some of his wardens from Valos, he would have happily gotten his revenge, or at the very least, watched with glee as the light faded from their eyes.

That said, he was probably messed up in the head, and therefore, what he would have done was probably considered messed up as well. That was alright though. He knew where his monsters came from, and why he had to shove them down into his darkness.

After a moment, he pulled himself up from his hiding spot, keeping his bow in hand, loaded and ready to fire with a breath. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, really. Maybe the Emperor's Army descending from the hills to kill him, maybe for them to attack him, maybe even for Zephira to shoot him in the back. Either way, he wasn't exactly expecting the two not to react at all. They had seen him, that much was obvious, but they seemed to dismiss him as a threat. Considering his bow loaded on his shoulder, he wasn't exactly sure that they were completely mentally sound.

As soon as one of them glanced at him, he gestured over to the bubble carriage. He needed to make sure their traders were dead before he joined them. They ignored him, and he huffed silently.

He moved closer, intent on checking the bodies, but was stopped by someone directly in his path. If his reflexes were slightly slower, he would have run into the person.

The bright sunlight made it slightly harder to see, but the smug smirk of a young man, probably around his age, was impossible to ignore.

"Hm." The man grunted smugly. "Pathetic."

What's pathetic is your sense of gratitude, he wanted to say, or your inability to get away on your own. Instead of mouthing the words, which he sometimes did, he stayed silent, and brought his hand up to the man's neck. He zapped the collar, and easily unbuckled it once it had shorted out.

The man's features went dark for a moment. He had black and silver hair, just a bit longer than Cashel's, but it was his eyes that gave away what he was. They were black. Pure black. There was no white around his eyes, no iris color, nothing. His skin was paler than even his or Zephira's, which was saying something since she hadn't seen sunlight in at least a decade. His nose was sharp, his eyebrows were shaped, and Cashel could already see the arrogance in the way the man stood. His shoulders were back, his nose slightly in the air, and the way he was looking down at Cash was enough to make him want to strangle the other.

The young woman with him ducked behind the smug man. Her hair was a dirty blonde mess that just passed her shoulder blades. Her own eyes were pure white, and the more he glanced between them, the more physical similarities he saw. They had the same nose, cheek bones, eyebrows, lips, even the same ears.

He didn't spare the girl, probably a family member, a glance, before walking towards the carriage. Cashel checked the bodies, slipping their weapons into his pockets and boots, before yanking his arrows out, and going towards the bubble himself. He had a feeling that he had just screwed up, more than he would probably understand, but that was slightly expected.

Once it closed behind him, and his bow was back in his pocket, he sat back in his seat. He started the bubble carriage up again, mentally thankful that it was working now that they were away from whatever had stopped it. He set the course, and adjusted the speed so that they were moving faster than before. It would probably break down once they got to Sector T, but he had contacts there that could help him. And if it just so happened to give him a chance to check the gossip on Terina, and where they thought she was, well then he wouldn't say anything against it.

"What are your names?" Zephira asked with a tense smile. He felt for her. She was trying to make them comfortable, but it wasn't an easy job. Hopefully, he would be able to find someone, anyone who would take the three off his hands and treat them right.

The blonde girl squeaked, and curled up at the man's side. She was probably the youngest of them, maybe a decade or so old, but not much more than that.

"Trish…" The smug man sighed in exasperation, but indulged her and lifted an arm slightly so she could basically crawl in his lap. His eyes moved from the girl to Zephira. "You know that its impolite to ask for someone's name without giving your own, right?"

Zephira ducked her head slightly. She wasn't exactly caught up on normal etiquette after spending more than a decade and a half in a lab being tortured. "My name is Zephira. I am, well was, the daughter of Zahir, before Zelig took over."

Well, that was news to him. She would have been taken before Councilman Zahir had been killed a few months ago. He wondered for a moment if her father had known what she had been, and once her powers started being obvious, he had her taken away for her own good. He wondered if her father had basically locked her away, not allowing anyone to hurt her, but once Zelig took over, the protection stopped.

He had no way of asking her anything, and really felt as if it wasn't his place anyway, so he closed his eyes and tried to keep his body as still as he could. He was still sore, extremely so, and his neck was starting to pulse in pain from all the movement. He kept his head down though, so that he wouldn't stress the skin.

A kick to the leg made him open his eyes annoyed. The smug man looked annoyed with him, and Cashel was strangely tempted to kick the other back.

"It's your turn to introduce yourself." The other man told him. Cashel couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. Well, yes, he had understood that, and he had felt Zephira's eyes on him, wondering if he would talk.

Instead of even bothering with mouthing his name, he lifted his chin, pointedly not looking at the other two. The smug mans' face wasn't so smug anymore. He looked horrified. The girl looked like she was about to faint.

He carefully lowered his chin again, so that his neck wasn't exposed anymore. He would have adjusted his collar if he thought he could get away with it without looking weak.

"You…" The youngest of them took a deep breath, before trying again. "You can't talk, can you?"

He shook his head once. It wasn't that big of a deal. Sure, sometimes, he wished he could respond normally, but he easily distracted himself after a few moments. It wasn't something he liked to dwell on. Why think on something that he couldn't change?

"I'm sorry for your loss." The little girl apologized.

He blinked at her. Loss? What loss? The loss of his voice? He shrugged lightly. It wasn't that big of a deal. He knew that it made people uncomfortable, but he had other things to worry about besides controlling himself from spilling a secret.

"I'm Ulric." The smug man introduced, trying to shrug off the silence. "This is Trish." He pulled out a small, tattered notebook from his pocket, and Cashel raised an eyebrow. Paper was rare now days, almost impossible to find for several reasons. Firstly, it was much easier to carry around a holo-note than a notebook, as they weren't easily broken or ruined. Secondly, trees were to be respected and only a small number were allowed to be cut down. It was easier to use the wood for homes and buildings than it was for something that could only be used once before being thrown away.

The notebook was pushed in his hands, and Trish giggled a bit, "Big brother is letting you write down your name. You should feel special, he doesn't even let me touch his notebooks, let alone actually use them."

Cashel blinked, and Ulric looked away awkwardly. Instead of drawing more attention to the other, he opened the book to the first blank page, and thought for a moment, before writing two letters, taking up as little space as he could.

C.J.

He supposed he wouldn't mind too much if they called him that. It was easier than writing out his full name, and even though he was proud of it, he didn't want to use up the precious space on the notebook. As he had been skimming through trying to find a blank page, he couldn't help but notice the small, precise words on the pages. Ulric clearly took care of his notebooks, and if he was going to be kind enough to let him use it to introduce himself, then the least he could do was show the pages the same respect.

Besides, technically, his name was Cashel Jolun, so C.J. was correct. He used the nickname Cash in his head on the occasion, but there was no one who bothered asking what name he had preferred before.

Cashel, Cash, and C.J. were all a part of his name, and he treasured the names more than he would ever admit to. It was a special thing, having a name, and he knew too well what life was like without one. He had lived most of his existence without one, and he wasn't ever allowing them to take his name again.

Even if he went back to the numbers, the ones that haunted his mind some nights, he would always have his name. It was his, and no one could take it from his mind.

"C.J. huh?" Trish read over her brother's shoulder. "Nice to meet you."

Cashel knew that as soon as she was comfortable around him and Zephira, she would be a bubbly little ball of energy. Until then, though, only a bit of her personality would be able to shine through. Her brother, on the other hand, was arrogant. He just was, and even though it was slightly subdued, it was still a part of him that he couldn't hide. He assumed they were the children of a well known someone, and had grown up in the spotlight. Neither of them knew what to do with the lives they had been thrust into, but he didn't know either.

He supposed that they could figure it out together, if everything went right.

Of course, that was when things went to hell.


	11. Chapter 9

The first time he actually woke up, he noticed that something was different in his very blood. It wasn’t burning, not really, it was just… off. His heart wasn’t hurting anymore, and his neck didn’t ache in the way it always did after he woke up. It was strange, and it was even more strange that he wasn’t in pain, not really. His body ached, but that was it.  
For a few moments, he wondered if it was just a dream, being injected with the weird liquid and being watched by the scientists. As soon as his light green eyes opened, he knew that it wasn’t.   
The pain may have become just a memory, at the moment anyway, but that didn’t mean he was in any less danger. He wanted to snort to himself. He was always in danger, and never was stupid enough to think otherwise.   
He glanced around, trying to finally take note of his surroundings, in case he actually managed to get out of the restraints. His skin on his wrists and ankles was red and raw in places while being scabbed, cracked, and bleeding in others.   
His mind wasn’t quite aware enough to be able to guess how long he had been out, but that was alright. He knew that the missing time would fill itself in soon enough. It always did. Somehow, a part of his mind was always watching the time, but it wasn’t always attached to his conscious mind.   
He pulled his wrists lightly, testing the leather lined metal cuffs. It was tight enough that he couldn't just wiggle out of them, but loose enough that his hands were still getting blood.   
Green eyes scanned the room, noticing the white counter tops, the pieces of technology over his heart that reported his stats to the hologram in the corner of his body. He noticed that most of his body was green in the hologram, but his fingertips and neck were an alarming shade of red.   
That said, his hands didn’t feel weird, even if they were still heavier than usual, and his neck was sore, but it was always sore when he was still for too long. It usually woke him up, even if he didn’t want to get up, because of the deep ache. He wasn’t sure why the body parts were red, but he didn’t bother thinking further on it. His eyes wondered to the cage in the corner.  
It was maybe three feet tall, and maybe a foot longer, while being only a foot across. Inside, curled up and watching him with big mint green eyes, was a young woman. Around her neck was a simple strip of leather that he was sure was more than it appeared. Her knees were up by her chest, with her arms wrapped around them.   
She was petite, maybe even smaller than himself, and her wild light blue hair fell around her body. It would have probably gone to her knees if she was standing up, but as it was, she used her hair as a blanket almost.   
She blinked at him, before a shy smile broke on her face. "Hello." She whispered, her voice soft like the wind, and musical like a bell. "Are you alright?" She asked, before shaking her head. "Silly question, silly me. Of course not. At least you are awake now. The masters will most likely be in here soon. It would be in your best interest to rest for now. You will not get a chance later, I am sure of that."  
He raised an eyebrow, turning his head slightly so that he could get a better look at her. She was pretty, but strange.   
"I hope you die soon, little lightning." She whispered.   
His face hardened, and his eyes smoothed over. He didn’t know if she was a threat or not, but then again, some of the least threatening people were the ones who could do the most damage.  
"I am the wind experiment. Welcome to Sector Z. I'm sure that you are feeling very strange, and have a lot of questions, but for now, I think that it is best for you to get some rest."   
He couldn't help but wonder if she was whispering because she was afraid that someone would overhear her, or if she was naturally quiet. He was just glad that she told him finally, where he was. Sector Z.   
He wasn’t in their rehabilitation center, that was obvious, nor was he anywhere near the estates that he knew would be close by. It also explained why he couldn't understand what the scientists had said the last time he had heard them. They had been speaking Zitai. He thought for a moment, closing his eyes as he tried to access any information he had heard about those from Sector Z. He knew that they were more closed off than most of the other Sectors. He also remembered something about their councilman dying shortly after he had gotten out, and the man's replacement wanted to be called, what was it, the Emperor.   
He had heard Vilmos complain about it several times, wondering what was wrong with the man's brain. He also remembered agreeing, and knowing, somehow, that the so called Emperor wouldn’t live very long.   
It was interesting, in a disturbing kind of way, how the man openly killed any who dared defy him and his rules. He knew that Sector Z had their own version of Turning the Cards, as every Sector did. He remembered hearing the name a few times, usually from Osred while cursing them for their complete lack of subtlety.   
There was something else, something to do with their experiments on Partial Human's, and maybe, he wasn’t sure, their hatred of Perfect Humans. The Emperor wanted to be turned into a Partial Human, given the gift Persuasiveness.  
That wasn’t how it worked though. Partial Humans were created in labs, but as infants. They were raised knowing that their powers were incomplete, but having a good bit of control over them. It was impossible to make a Normal Human into a Partial. It required splicing their DNA, and injecting it with something while making sure that it wasn’t falling apart.   
The only problem was, the serum that made Partial Humans gain their powers was deadly to normal humans and 93% of them died before they were a year old from losing control. The chance of them actually being able to figure out how to change the serum into what the man dreamed of wasn’t exactly very high in the first place. It would have been higher if more people acknowledged Partial Humans and didn’t look at them as scum because they looked different than Normal Humans.   
No, most people looked down on Partial Humans because they weren't able to blend in, their powers weren't as easy to control as Perfect Humans, and they were more whatever their gifts were than human. Then again, Perfect Humans had their fair share of flaws as well. They were nowhere near perfect in his mind.   
He had only seen a few in their normal states, willowy, boney, and creepy. They lacked emotions, were more primitive, but their minds were far more advanced without them. They were things that crawled into his nightmares after he had seen the first one shed its Human skin and stretch, bones cracking and sticking through skin as they grew and shrank.  
The sound of the bones shifting was enough to make him gag.   
Partial Humans were a bit different. They couldn't pass as normal. No, their features were often morphed thanks to the serum injected when they were nothing more than a few cells on a tray.  
There was one thing in which Partial Humans surpassed their Perfect counterparts. Partial Humans had a stronger connection to their gifts than the others did. Between a Partial Human with the gift of Persuasiveness, and a Perfect Human with the same specialty, the Partial Human was more likely to convince more people than the other.   
The difference was in the gift verses the specialty. Perfect Human's had a wider range of power, such as them being able to change into human skin, and being able to blend into their surroundings. Partials, on the other hand, only had a single gift, and said gift was the one thing that they would be able to do with some level of mastery.   
Cadis, for example, had the gift of Movement, meaning she could balance several things doing several different things at the same time without touching any of them. It wasn’t unusual for him to go into her lab while she was levitating several scopes, working on several computers, and performing several different experiments at the same time. It wasn’t exactly the same as the psychic power, as she couldn't move people, just objects that had to do with science and her experiments. She could lift one of his knives, if she concentrated hard enough, and put down everything else, but it wasn’t something she was used to, and therefore it was always shaky and unsteady. She was useless in combat situations, but put her with any type of scientific lab, and she would have been able to do things that would have made his brain explode.   
Her gift was fairly common amongst the Partial Humans, as were things that didn’t require touch. There were, however rare, Partial Humans that could do things slightly different. They could control certain aspects of the weather in small ways. They couldn't cause, say, a snow storm or a tornado, but they could make it snow, or start up a breeze.  
Though, according to Cadis, they were usually killed fairly soon after their powers developed because they were unpredictable.   
He wondered if that was what happened to the girl in the cage. A part of him wanted to help her, but he knew that in order to do so, he would need to get out first. And, he needed to be able to trust her. He wasn’t stupid, and Cadis had warned him to run in the opposite direction should he be unlucky enough to meet a Partial Human with an Elemental Gift.   
She would probably attempt to hit him if Cadis had heard what was going through his mind. Elemental Gift Partials were too dangerous to be free. If they lost control, bad things happened to those who got in the way.   
Cashel, however, had an idea. He had a feeling that he could use her to get out of here. If she was really as dangerous as Cadis had warned him, then as soon as he could get her to use her powers, they could both get out of here.  
He glanced at her, again. His eyes lingered on her neck. He wondered what the strip of leather was for, if it served some type of purpose, or if it was simply for humiliation. She seemed to notice where his eyes were, and squeezed her knees tighter.   
"It cuts me off from my power until the masters remove it. I cannot as much as summon a breeze with it on." She told him calmly. Her voice may have been calm, but her eyes were wild, looking anywhere but him. "I assume that you will be fitted for one soon enough."  
He raised an eyebrow again. That didn’t make sense. Why would they bother putting, what he assumed was, an inhibitor collar on him? It wasn’t like he had any type of power, be they physical or something like the woman's.  
She laughed, shaking her light blue hair lightly. "You still do not understand, do you? You feel the electricity in your veins, but you do not understand what it means. How refreshing it must be to be so innocent."   
Was she insinuating what he thought she was? Electricity? Sure, little shocks were going through his veins, but he assumed it was because he was adapting to the pain. They couldn't give him powers, even if they wanted to, right? That was impossible to do without killing him. Even then, it wouldn’t work.  
"That is what the world wants to assume. They want to assume that Sector Z has not been injecting and testing subjects for decades. They wish to not know what is really going on in this world, and thus, they do not. You may not have been born like me, little lightning, but you certainly are now." She told him, "At least for a little while. It has been several years since they failed getting someone to the second stage. The problem, however, lies in passing the third without their brains melting, or them losing their humanity and becoming yet another experiment that is to be locked away."  
There was that name again. Little lightning. Was she trying to tell him something? She couldn't possibly be insinuating that he wasn’t normal anymore. Sure, he had never been normal, but he had been born a Normal Human. Even if he had wanted to, which he didn’t, it was impossible to change.  
Then again, he could feel the shocks, and he couldn't understand why he felt so strange. He had assumed it was because they were trying to torture him, but if they were simply experimenting, then why would they have taken him?  
He knew the answer to that. They had moved out of turning cells into Partial Humans, and had moved to being able to change humans. Most likely, they had tried on several dozen people before, and they had been too weak to survive the second stage. They might have taken him because of Valos. If they had failed because their bodies were too unused to pain, or they had simply given up…  
He understood the logic behind the choice if that was why. Being from one of the harshest of the Rehabilitation Centers meant that he was far more used to pain than most people. Even people from other Rehabilitation Centers would have either cracked or broken under the reign of Valos. No, if being too weak was the reason their experiments failed, then a Valos test subject was ideal.  
Probably, he hadn't been the original target. No, it wouldn’t have made sense, because they had no way of knowing that he would have gone with Osred. They didn’t spend every day together after all. If they had known that the Councilman of Sector T had called in a favor with Sector V, then maybe, but they wouldn’t have known exactly who would have been assigned to the case. It could have just as easily been Blodwyn or one of the others.   
But it wasn’t. It was him and Osred. Cashel knew he made an ideal target, even if he was a little more well known than they probably preferred.   
That begged the question, though of why they had left him in a room with the woman in the cage.   
"Zephira." She whispered into the silence. "My name is Zephira. I was born with power over wind, but unlike most of the people with our power, I was not seen by the Future Picture. I had a family, and a name. As soon as I found my powers, I was taken here after watching my family being burned alive for harboring a Partial."  
He blinked a bit. He didn’t know her, nor did he understand why she was telling him anything at all. If he had been her, he would have stayed silent, gathered his strength, and escaped. She, on the other hand, didn’t even try.   
Maybe she had, long ago. But now, she was broken.   
A part of him wondered if maybe she could hear his thoughts, but he quickly dismissed the thought. It wasn’t possible. If she was a wind gifted, then she didn’t have anything to do with any type of psychic power.

"You talk not, correct?" Zephira looked at him, not that it was a surprise that she had figured that out. If she had really been in here as long as he had been, then she had probably been expecting him to scream. Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible with his throat the way it was.   
He shook his head lightly, and tested the bonds on his foot.   
She moved her light blue hair out of her light green eyes, and seemed to watch his very soul. "You should be adapt at listening, but you are not. You still only hear the words spoken, not the words that stay in one's mind. You are different now, of course, and yet you still do not believe me." She glanced over to the corners where the shadows lurked, before leaning back against the grids of her cage. "Perhaps, instead of focusing on me, you should focus on your finger tips."  
Well, that made no sense. Focusing on his fingers? Why would he do that? His eyes darted over to the life sized hologram of himself, and the red dots that seemed to gather in his hands and neck.   
He jerked his first finger on his left hand up a bit. He closed his eyes and focused on his hands. Little shocks ran down his hands until he smelled something burning. Static went from his finger to his thumb. When it did, he opened his eyes and froze.  
A small, but visible, current was traveling between his fingers. That shouldn’t have been possible, but clearly Zephira was expecting it. She seemed a bit surprised though. He wasn’t sure if it was that, or the sight of electricity moving in his hands without hurting or killing him, that caused him to black out.   
This had to be a dream. It had to be.  
He woke up with a sharp pinch in his arm, and jerked in his restraints. The familiar numbing shock went through his body. It hurt, but somehow, it yanked him into the state between awake and asleep. He mentally prepared himself for the pain that he knew was coming.   
The third needle slid into his veins, and his breath choked off for a moment. His heart stayed steady, his body remained as tense as he could make it. But something weird was happening.   
It didn’t hurt. Small, but a slightly more powerful current ran through his veins, gathering easily in his hands, his neck, and, more interestingly, his heart. For the first time, he fully believed Zephira's words.   
The power was his, prickling under his skin, prepared to strike with nothing more than a thought. He wasn’t sure if the man knew he was awake, or what he was about to do, but he certainly didn’t hide away from it.   
As soon as the liquid was fully in his system, he yanked on his arm, burning the leather with the electricity. The smell was slightly annoying, but it wasn’t worth a thought. Not really.   
He was a bit surprised, when he was thinking, that he could actually move. It shouldn’t have been possible. He assumed he was just getting more used to it, like he had the serum.  
Once the metal cuff had broken, thanks to several high intensity shocks, he reached out for the scientist. His hand closed around the man's face. He could feel the other screaming, his breath hot against Cash's hand, but that didn’t matter. He twisted his hand and the man's eyes exploded.  
The goop draped over his hand should have bothered him more than it actually did. He knew it would mess with his mind later, and accepted that as a fact. He reached over with his free hand, and unlocked the cuff calmly. A few seconds more, and both his hands and legs were free.   
He slid them over the side of the table, and glanced around, looking for something that he could use to defend himself. It wasn’t going to be enough, he already knew that, but it would give him a slightly better chance of getting out of this place. In one of the drawers, he found pure white scrubs, he believed the word was, and pulled them on. He very carefully didn’t sigh in relief at the feeling of something besides air against his skin.   
The next drawer was useless, with papers lined up inside. He didn’t bother trying to decipher them, he had other things that needed his attention.   
Thankfully, the last drawer had something far more useful. It had his bow, a few of the folding arrows, and a needle kit, the smallest of them. He wondered why they were in here, but carefully shoved the thought away.   
He tucked the half a dozen folding arrows inside the waist line of his scrubs, and kept the folded bow in his hand. The needle kit was in his other hand. It wasn’t much, not compared to what he preferred, but it would do. 

A part of him wanted to just run. He may not be able to get out, but he had a better chance on his own than with anyone else. He huffed silently, rolled his eyes, and moved towards the cage in the corner. He unlocked it with a casual movement of his hand, and pulled off the shirt of the scrubs.   
She looked at him, completely confused, and he handed the shirt to her. It was big on him, going down to his thighs, but as soon as it was over her head, it was passed her knees.   
He had been right, strangely enough. She was barely at his shoulders, and her hair was to her knees as well. He didn’t want to, but he handed her the needle kit with a deep glare, before yanking her along behind him.   
Cashel knew that he had to do two things before he could leave. He had to find either his weapons or Osred and Terina. Unless he was careful, both of them would get killed, he knew that. But, at the same time, he had to at least look for the other two.   
He really, really didn’t want to break back in this place because he had been stupid and in a hurry to get out. The door was locked, but that wasn’t a problem, thanks to the corpse with the keys. He pushed a button on his bow, waiting for it to expand into place with a series of clicks, before he opened the door.   
He let go of Zephira so that he could grab an arrow from his scrubs and line up a shot. He twisted slightly, making sure that they were alone, before choosing to go left.   
Down the hallway he went, slowly but surely. He checked every room he passed, putting an arrow in the head of anyone he didn’t know and stealing items he thought he may need from their bodies.   
Usually, he was a bit obsessed with making sure his arrows were clean before he reused them, but this time, he didn’t exactly get a choice in the matter. Zephira followed behind him as a silent shadow as he took down Guard after Scientist after Agent. Some of them were useful in death, giving him weapons and ammunition that he would have otherwise been without.   
He wanted to bring his bow back to the little square once he had stolen the jacket of an Agent who wouldn’t need it anymore, but he didn’t know most of the other weapons as well.   
A few more doors, a few more deaths, and he reached, what he assumed was, the armory. His suit was in there, and he easily raided their supplies to supplement his own dwindling supply.   
He smirked a bit, giving the coat to a mismatched Zephira, and shoving her towards an unused corner of the room with a set of clothing that he assumed belonged to a scientist. He pulled on his suit while she was getting dressed, tying the tie calmly around his neck.   
It was torn in places, but even though they had tried, they hadn't managed to find every weapon in his clothes. His boots were there too, thankfully, and he slid the arrows as well as the knives and Iron Fire Shot into his boots. Several more daggers were taken from the wall and put on his person.   
He knew that the weapons were responsible for the illusion of safety that covered him. He certainly didn’t mind. Once he was as prepared as he was going to get, he glanced over at Zephira.   
She was clearly struggling with her clothing.   
He wanted to roll his eyes, but he didn’t, and simply walked over to her, pulling her long hair from her clothing. He gathered it in his hand and began to twist until it was in a rather messy, but solid, braid.   
He had done the same thing with Cadis several times, even if her hair was several feet longer than Cadis'. He glanced around for something to hold it in place, and found a small strip of leather in the cubby of the scientist that he had stolen from for her. He tied it around, making sure that it would stay in place, before lifting several Shots. His personal favorites were Iron Fire Shots, they were small, compact, and exploded on impact, usually. There were several other choices though, and she grabbed two of the smaller ones, and a large Ore Explosive Shot, a type of sniper if he remember right.  
He nodded to her, and prepared his bow one more for battle. He really hoped she could actually shoot, and wouldn’t end up putting a bullet through him. He didn’t really have the time to think about it though. He had other things he needed to focus on.  
Neither Terina nor Osred were anywhere that he could find, which meant that they were somewhere else. If they were already not in the building, then why was he?  
Before he left, he shrugged to himself and stuffed several explosives into his vest. He had no problem blowing up those who tried to stand in his way. It was a horrible thing, he was sure of that, but he would rather blow them up than let them tear even more holes in his skin.  
Between the two of them, Osred usually was the close ranged fighter, while he provided the support. With Zephira, though, it simply wasn’t possible. Even if she knew what she was doing with the Shots, her tiny frame wouldn’t be much use in a physical fight.   
Not that he would be much better, he thought bitterly, shooting another Agent in the head with nothing more than a small whizzing of an arrow, and the sound of it tearing through his flesh.   
Cashel yanked it out of the man's skull, and continued walking. He wasn’t sure where the exit was, but he knew he could make his own if he really needed to. Sure, it would draw a lot of attention to them, which was probably the only reason that he hadn't done so already, but it would be the most useful solution.  
Unless they were either underground, which somehow he had a bad feeling about, or several stories off the ground. Just because Osred preferred to design buildings three stories or less didn’t mean everyone did.   
Due to not being able to find a window, he assumed they were underground, rather than above it. That said, he knew that if it was true, he needed to go up. If he was wrong though, he would simply be trapping both himself and Zephira. That was a risk he knew he had to take. Even if he really, really didn’t want to.  
His only other choice was to do nothing, and since that ended up with him dead, just like the other two did if he screwed up, he decided that he was going down with a fight.   
A small shrug passed his shoulders. It wasn’t like he could ask anyone for their opinions, or interrogate them into telling him what he wanted to know. He couldn't talk and that made interrogations of any kind more humiliating than useful. That was yet another reason he had Osred. The man could charm anyone into telling him almost anything, and thus, there was no reason for normal interrogations.   
He mentally promised himself that the second he found the other, he was smacking him upside the head. So much for being helpless, he thought with a snort.  
Sure, he was probably giving up some of the protections offered to him by showing what he could do, but he couldn't stay there and die, nor could he leave Zephira without any way out. It went against everything he was to do so.  
He was a protector, maybe not a very good one, but he couldn't stand the thought of anyone getting hurt when he could prevent it   
That was why he had dragged her along. Even if they both died, it would be better than living out the rest of one's life being tortured in a cage.   
He wouldn’t live in a cage, and he knew that was where he would have been put should he have lived. That said, he knew that he needed to figure out a way to question Zephira on exactly what was happening to him. That was, funny enough, assuming that she knew.   
He wasn’t sure if anyone would be able to predict what would happen to him. If everyone died as soon as they got to the third stage, then would need to get them to safety before it hit. It was easy enough, in theory.   
In theory being the key words.  
He had basically accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to be alive for much longer. That didn’t mean he was giving up though. He couldn't, even if he wanted to. He was going to fight to protect until his body gave out or they were safe. Whichever came first.  
Hiding from death wasn’t something he thought was worth it. He had lived his entire life not knowing if he would survive the day, and he was alright with that. He knew most people wanted to avoid thoughts of their humanity, but he embraced it.   
It was a game of sorts. A deadly game, granted, with high stakes, but it was something that made his adrenalin race through his veins.   
He reached a staircase in the middle of the building, and glanced down, as well as up. There were four levels under him, but there were eight above him. He grabbed Zephira's hand and started going up.   
It was a gamble, he knew that. That said, either direction was, and he assumed he had a better chance going up rather than down.   
He climbed the stairs, his blood rushing through his body as his heart pumped faster than usual. He glanced over his shoulder, and mentally sighed. Zephira wasn’t even breathing hard. He should have guessed that. Partial Humans, according to Cadis, were slightly more used to physical traumas than most people were. She would get winded faster than a Perfect Human, but could easily out do most Normal Humans.   
He wondered for a moment, if his body would be like that. If he really was a Partial now, then was his body going to change to match his DNA? He knew that Partial Humans were more likely to have strange hair colors or eyes that glowed.   
Personally, he hoped he wouldn’t. He liked his light green eyes, they were close to mint green in color, which had become one of his two favorites as soon as he discovered them.   
His hair was a light brown, and getting shaggy. Now that he was moving, his hair tickled his eyes and neck. He usually just gelled it back, but it seemed as if the gel has long since given up its hold on his hair.   
It was a pity. He had learned that his hair being in his eyes wasn’t a comfort that reminded him that he wasn’t in Valos, not it was an annoyance. The less he had to see or deal with it, the better.   
That said, he didn’t really have time to dwell on his appearance. Not yet. He would spend several hours in front of the mirror as soon as he got back to the guild, frowning as he worked with his hair. He was a bit obsessed with trying to get it to cooperate with him, even if he usually failed. It had a curl to it, according to Cadis, which was why it was so unruly.   
He glanced around, sliding his heel so that he turned just enough to exit the stairwell. He gestured for Zephira to watch his back as he cracked the door open, his arrows already seated in the bow.   
The hall was abandoned, and he grimaced at the sight of all the spider webs and dust.   
Nope.  
He backed up a bit, and returned to the stair case, moving carefully, but quickly, up another flight of stairs.   
Once he had, he peeked through the doorway. People were on this level, and they weren't dressed as scientists or guards or agents. They were casually dressed, some were more casual than others. Some were talking with their friends and laughing. Some stayed quietly out of the way.  
He pushed the button on his bow to make it compact again, and folded the arrows, sticking them carefully back in his boot. He gestured at Zephira to give him the larger gun so that he could hide it under his suit jacket. She willingly gave him the weapon, and ran a hand over her hair to smooth it a bit.  
She looked like a scientist, but he didn’t. He looked, well, he wasn’t sure what he looked like, but whatever it was, it was going to work. As long as his weapons were hidden, he knew that he could probably get away with it.   
Once the door shut quietly behind them, he knew that they were going to get out. He didn’t know if they were going to be killed as soon as they did, or if they could track her with the strip of leather around her neck, but he knew that they would get out.   
He turned slightly and put a hand on her neck. He moved the electricity to the leather collar. It took a bit of concentration to make sure he didn’t shock her, but it fell off a few minutes later.   
He knew that it would have looked like he was staring into her eyes, but that was alright with him. As long as it didn’t draw attention to them, then he didn’t care what people perceived him as.   
He grabbed her arm and walked confidently towards the door in an unhurried pace.   
If he looked panicked, then that would draw eyes to them that they couldn't afford to have. They reached the glass doors, and he pushed it open.   
The warmth of the sun made him sigh in relief. He was free.  
 


	12. Chapter 11

It was funny, in a way, how things could go from being calm and quiet to so chaotic in just moments. One second, Trish was smiling, Ulric was relaxing a bit, Zephira was telling them a story about Sector Z before it had become the place it was today, and he was trying not to fall asleep.

The next moment, they were fighting for their lives. Bullets rained down from every direction. He yanked Zephira under him, using his body as a shield for her, and next to him, Ulric had done the same for Trish.

He could barely hear Trish whimpering under the beating of his own heart. He cursed himself as bullet after bullet broke through their bubble. His body jerked with every hit, and he had a feeling that he wasn’t going to be able to move without pain for a long time. He reached for the emergency hatch, and yanked it. Trish and Ulric fell first, as they were over it.

He pushed Zephira out after them, and once he was sure they were out of the carriage, he glanced around. He didn’t go out after them. He couldn't. He dropped a Iron shield from his pocket, over them, pushing the button to make it come to life. They would be safe for a few minutes. It could block several dozen hits, but it wasn’t impossible to break. That was alright though, he didn’t need it to. He reached up and started the carriage again, letting it move, and with it, himself.

They did as he hoped and followed him with their fire. He counted to ten, before he took out one of the several dozen explosives he had on his person, and threw it up. He slid out of the hatch before it closed. The explosion rocked the carriage, and he covered the back of his head with his arms.

Heat bit his skin, metal shredded his back, and then nothing.

He woke up. Somehow, someway, he did. It shouldn’t have been possible. He had known he was going to die from the moment he decided to save the other three. He had hoped that the explosion would take out most of the people shooting at them, giving the other three at least a fighting chance.

A steady set of beeps pulled him from his mind, and he jerked. His eyes bolted open, and his body sat up, or at least, it tried to. He was stuck to a table again.

But this one wasn’t metal, no this one was much more familiar. This one was made of splintering wood that pierced into his shredded back. Shackles around his hands and ankles made panic rise from his stomach.

Had it all been a dream? Had he never left the punishment room? Had he never actually met Vladislav or Vilmos or Osred or Zephira? Had they all been a part of his mind? A trick of his psyche?

He jerked his head back, and felt the scar on his neck pull. He sighed, almost in relief at the familiar discomfort. Minds could lie, but scars couldn't. Which begged the question, what was he doing here? Where was here?

Somewhere in his mind, he knew exactly where he was, but he refused to believe it. He couldn't have been back in Vilmos, could he ? The last time he had been awake, he had been about to cross into Sector T's land.

There was no way that he was unconscious for that long, right? Then again, his back was already scabbing, so he had clearly been out for a while. It had been sewn up, but not bandaged, just like always.

They had never bothered wasting bandages on people like him.

No, don’t think like that, he tried to tell himself. It couldn't possibly be true. How could it be?

The only way he could be brought back to Valos was by order of whoever the Councilman was. Seeing as the boy who was supposed to take up the mantle was no more than 10, Vilmos had kept the position safe for the boy for a few years.

Vilmos certainly wouldn't have him brought here.

The door opened, and staring at him with a nasty grin was his least favorite Guard, a man with a bald head and a nasty smile, entered. It wasn't the look of the man, or the others silent preference for those who weren't even able to walk yet, that made the shiver go down Cashel’s spine.

It was the man's punishments.

He chained down those who had done something that he didn't like, to a table. Then, he would crank the table, forcing their shoulders and hips out of joint, and keep pulling until their bones snapped under the force.

Most of those he did this too were still growing, and unable to move correctly. It disabled them, and led to them dying of starvation. There had been one more memorable story where he had left a girl there for so long, she ate her own arm to both get free and try not to die. It didn't help. She bled out, never to be seen again.

From the look on the man's face, that was exactly what he wanted to do to Cashel.

“Well, well,” the man purred out, “look at you. How was life outside, 907256179? Did it satisfy you?” The man looked like he was waiting for a response, before laughing mockingly.

The man knew there wasn't anything that he could do, he was in the others mercy. If the man had anything resembling that, he wasn't sure. It also probably didn't help that the man could easily see the scar on his neck thanks to the angle his head was being held.

He hated it. He hated this weakness probably more than anything else in this world, but like most things, there really wasn't anything he could do about it.

The Guard ran a hand gently over the side of his face. It took every bit of restraint not to throw up at the touch. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“You know, I had heard about you on the outside, the strong, silent apprentice of Osred, but they don’t know you the way I do, do they? They haven't heard you sing for me, little bird, and because the boss wants me to make sure your vocal cords are useless, he gave me permission to make you scream until your throat bleeds. Wont that be fun?" He grabbed Cashel's hair and yanked his head backwards until his throat was pressed against the back of the metal collar. His throat was exposed, and the man brought a knife across the sensitive scarred skin. 

His breath hitched, and he didn’t dare swallow the lump in his throat. They stayed like that for a few minutes, neither moving, and each waiting for the other to give up. After a loud, laughed breath, the Guard let the harsh grip on his hair go. He stayed perfectly still, and hoped that the other man would leave soon.

 

It wasn’t to be, sadly.

"Well, well, looks like Osred's bitch gained some balls." The man laughed, "I might have to cut them off. Would you scream for me if I did?"

Cashel promised himself that he wouldn’t scream, not if it was something that this man wanted to hear. No, the moment he was left alone, he would get out of his binds, and get out of here. He promised himself that.

"Don’t even think about it," The Guard cooed. "The littlest girl lived. She's around here too. Unless you want me to pay her a visit, you have to be a good boy."

Littlest girl? What did that mean about Zephira and Ulric? Or did they call Zephira the littlest? Did that mean the other two got away.

The Guard laughed a bit, his eyes moving towards the darkest corner of the room. "Hey, give us some light in here!" He shouted towards the door.

Cashel squinted, trying to see through the thick darkness, before the room was flooded in light.

His head turned away, and he threw up. He tried not to look in the corner again, but he couldn't stop his eyes. The Guard laughed loudly, giving him a moment to look horrified.

Zephira, or what was left of her, was chained on the wall by her wrists. Her eyes had been gorged out, her hands were fingerless stumps, her mouth was opened, exposing her torn gums. All of her teeth had been torn out. The skin on her chest had been carved off, and her innards were hanging limply from her belly.

It was probably the most disgusting sight he had ever seen. From what he could see, she had been dead for days. A part of him wondered if she had been tortured so close to him, or if he had been moved in here when he showed signs of waking up. He really hoped it was the later. He couldn't help but throw up again.

The guard laughed, and grabbed his head, turning it more than the collar made it comfortable to, before rubbing his face in his vomit. "Bad, bad boy. I should make you lick it up." 

It wouldn’t be the first time, he thought bitterly. Throwing up was probably one of the worst things anyone could do here, because not only would they have to go through the humiliation of licking it off the floor or the bed, but they wouldn’t be allowed to eat for a week if they licked it up, or two if they didn’t.

It was horrible, disgusting, and humiliating. He carefully looked anywhere other than at the corpse next to him. The Guard tisked. "Nah- ah- ah. Look at her. She's so lovely like this, don’t you think?"

The man was sick, he realized with a start, actually mentally sick.

"Should we leave you in here until you either eat her remains or die? Tisk, I told them we should have left her alive. She had a pretty scream, did you know that? I bet if you close your eyes, and remember, you would be able to hear everything that we did to her. It was funny how she screamed for you to wake up. Did you know she stayed alive until her guts fell out? She lived through everything else, but she gave up when she realized you were being lazy and wouldn’t get up, no matter how much she screamed for you. I bet you're calling us monsters, aren't you? But your wrong." The Guard yanked his head so that it was facing the corpse on the wall, his foul breath on Cashel's ear. "You're the monster. You're the one who gave her to us, the one who didn’t fight for her. I think you need a lesson, but they won't let me do anything until after your little meeting. So, Cassy boy, let's get you up!"

He was slowly unshackled and forced to stand up. His body was stripped down to his underclothes, and instead of tying him back up, he was dragged by his hair out of the room, forced to crawl behind the man.

Humiliation, it seemed, was still the preferred tactic, he noticed as his blood rushed to his face. He couldn't believe this was real. But then again, after seeing what was left of Zephira, he couldn't help but know that this was his reality. She was dead because he tried to save her. Everything that happened to her was his fault.

Sure, she would have probably been killed sooner or later at the lab, but at least she wasn’t tortured like this. He felt a deep pang of regret. Did that mean that Trish was the little girl that the Guard was talking about earlier? If so, did that mean Ulric suffered the same fate as Zephira?

No, probably not. They wouldn’t have been able to keep from bragging about that as well. He hoped that meant that Ulric got away before they could get him. But, no, again. Ulric wouldn’t have left Trish, not if he had any say in the matter. He wouldn’t have been able to leave his little sister, even if he wanted to.

Which meant that he was probably dead as well, but from the explosion or a gun rather than the torture.

They had Cashel locked up tightly, they knew it, and they didn’t even have to make it literal. No, he wouldn’t fight if they had Trish. As long as they could prove that she was in relatively good health, and alive, he was going to be good. He couldn't risk letting her take a punishment for him. It wasn’t acceptable for him to commit the crime and let her get hurt. Even if he knew that he would probably get in trouble for breathing wrong, he had to try.

That said, even if he screwed up, they weren't likely to kill her. The moment she died, they lost the only thing keeping him still.

As he crawled through the halls, he was partially glad to recognize some of the kids. Most of them were new, especially the little ones, but there were a few that he knew. It was a good thing, he couldn't help but think, that they survived.

It was unexpected, but he was glad to know that they hadn't been slaughtered the moment he had left them alone. Faces, some familiar, some not, moved through his vision, but none of them were who he was looking for.

Until, right before the hallways that were supposed to be off limits, he saw a little blonde being held by a meaty guard with a sickly sweet smile in his direction. Trish struggled a bit in the man's grip as she saw him, her white eyes going wide. He shook his head minutely, and she stopped.

As long as she didn’t fight, she would be fine. They wouldn’t dare hurt her, they needed his agreement, and because of that, they needed her. He could hear her whimper as he was dragged by his hair away. He tried to smile at her, letting her know that everything would be alright, but he couldn't.

The trip down the halls brought back memories of the first time he had seen Vladislav. Funny enough, his back had been the thing that hurt the most back then, and it certainly still stung and pulled as he moved today. Tonight. Whatever the time was.

This throat had hurt then too, but from screaming thanks to the night before. He had been able to talk though, even if he never trusted the Councilman enough to actually use his voice.

They passed the door that he had used last time, which made him raise his eyebrows a bit. Three more doorways, and the door was opened slightly. He was kicked roughly in the back, suppressed a scream. The door closed on his ankle, and he pulled it inside before a second slam broke the bone.

A loud sigh broke through the quiet of the room, making him look up. The fireplace was lit, but turning to embers and needed a few new logs in order to actually. Vilmos was sitting in a wooden chair, with his hands buried in his hair. He looked like he had aged several decades in the last few months.

"For what it's worth," Vilmos muttered, "I don’t think you actually did anything that they're accusing you of."

What were they accusing him of? Blowing up a bubble carriage? Not getting to Councilman Tynan quick enough? Leaving a trail of corpses behind him as he escaped the lab?

"They're saying you murdered Councilman Tynan, Councilman Zahir, and funny enough, that you were the one who killed Councilman Vladislav, and not that woman from wherever she was from. They are also blaming the death of Councilman Honorius, and Councilman Philo. I, however, just so happen to know that you haven't been anywhere near Sector H or Sector P. You also have apparently, almost half a dozen Governors' deaths under your belt. Because you're from here, every other living Councilman is bothering me about your death." Vilmos muttered, running a hand through his hair, before sitting back in the seat. "I know you didn’t kill any of them, but I can't exactly prove it. You don’t know anything that could get you off the hook, do you?"

Cashel let out a silent sigh, and pulled himself on his knees, before sitting back against his heels. 

"Yeah," Vilmos laughed bitterly, "I didn’t think so. I hate this, but I can't do anything. People say that the Council has all the power? Please, I've had nothing but orders since I took the seat. There's something going on, Cashel, and I'm not sure if the One Nation is the culprit, or the victim. All of the council's personal protection groups, like the Emperor's Army, and Turning the Cards, are being hunted. Last I heard, they had taken the P.H. to Sector N, and Osred is being held in Sector B, for some stupid reason. The rest of them are on lockdown, but I don’t know where. I never needed to know where the guildhall was, until now of course, and the only person who would know can't talk." He let his head fall against the back of the chair again and again. "How is this my life?" Vilmos asked Cashel.

Cash shrugged. He had wondered the same thing several times over the past few months, and was still no closer to an answer.

"I don’t take it you could, say, break out in the next week and track down the others to warn them?" Vilmos asked.

He tilted his head slightly. He probably could break out in a week. He needed to be sure that Trish could make the journey, but it wouldn’t be impossible. Probably.

He had certainly thought about it often enough, especially when he had been laying in bed recovering from his neck being sliced open. He knew he would need a few days to let the suspicion die down a bit, and to let some of the eyes watching him get tired and look for other things to do.

He brought one hand up to cup his chin as he closed his eyes in thought. It wasn’t impossible to get away from the guards. If Vilmos could make sure there was a vehicle for him to steal, then probably. He could get to the yard. He could carry Trish out if he needed to, on his back. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but he could do it. He could unlock the shackles at any time, and if he could get to where he knew the guards kept their weapons, he was almost positive he could get out.

There would, most likely, be yet another trail of bodies following him, but he could probably manage.

Vilmos was staring at him as if he suddenly grew another head, and he gave the other man a small, but secretive smirk. The man handed over his holo- note with a sigh.

"Give me a list of what you need, and I'll make sure my men don’t get in your way. I hope you know what you're doing, Cashel." Vilmos clearly didn’t trust the look on his face. That was a good thing, though, because he wouldn’t trust himself either.

If they had kept his gear, which knowing them of course they did, then he would have more than enough ammunition to get out. Probably. Maybe. If they had gotten rid of his stuff, well, it would be more of a challenge, but he knew he could get them out. He just wasn’t sure they would be able to live much longer than passed the front doors.

He made a mental note not to let the other man know what he was thinking. He settled back on his heels, and carefully started his list. He didn’t bother acting like he couldn't write or read anymore. Vilmos clearly knew he did, and it wasn’t worth acting. He didn’t have the energy for it.

After a few minutes, he checked his list, then rechecked it to make sure everything he was asking for was possible to get in such a short period of time. Vilmos had asked for him to be out in a week, but he was pretty sure he could get out in four days.

He stood carefully, and paused at the sound of his name by the door. "You could talk. Back when I first met you, you could speak, even if you weren't supposed to know how. Right?"

Cashel sent the man a small, but bitter smile. He didn’t nod or shake his head. He knew that would be enough for the other man to be able to understand what he didn’t want to admit.

He had never thought that he would be silenced forever in the outside world. He had assumed he would stay quiet for a few months at most, then once he was comfortable, prove to the rest of the world that he could, indeed, speak.

That dream was shattered, as with it his humor towards the subject. He had long since acknowledged that the other man would never hear his voice, but that was alright. He would never hear himself speak again either. He was the only one who was able to miss his voice.

A part of him was still bitter about it, and he had a feeling it would be years before he wasn’t anymore. That said, he had learned to live without a voice that most people could hear.

His not talking was as much a part of him nowadays as his honey brown hair or his mint green eyes, or the scar around his neck that hung his voice in its noose. He didn’t mind who he had become, a bit cynical, a bit bitter, but he still laughed occasionally, and still was able to smile. It was more than enough for now, and he was more than content with his life.

When he wasn’t locked up in labs being tortured or held back in Valos with corpses of his friends being hung near his body, that was. He was content when he was free to move in the shadows.

He turned for a moment, and grabbed the holo- note from the other and scrawled out a quick question. Why can't you just order my release, like Vladislav did?

Vilmos looked at the question, and his shoulders slumped a bit.

"I'm not the actual Councilman, nor am I a Governor. I'm just keeping the seat warm, and everyone knows it. That, and Sector V was the one that was hit first, and after your release the other four Councilmen and the five Governor's were killed. Everything happened after you were released, and everyone thinks that it was because of you. Our only allies are in the middle of their own political struggles, and I know that they can't exactly do anything from where they are. No, I have no power, but no one does here." He sighed again, "That’s the problem, Cashel, without a visible leader to go to, people are starting to rebel, which is bringing the eyes of the One Nation down on us. It's almost impossible to send out anyone to do a recon job for me. Osred was the only one I knew could get in and out. Look where that got him now."

He raked a hand through his hair again. "I'm not sure what they're doing to him and the Partial Human, but I know that they won't be able to last much longer. I would have sent out a rescue mission, but…" He trailed off in annoyance.

Cashel knew why. If even the people didn’t respect Vilmos as a leader, than Turning the Cards would be laughing at the idea. He hadn't proved himself to either the people or the guild, and until he did, he wouldn’t be able to do anything. Vilmos was trapped in a cyclone of poor choices, and the man wasn’t able to make a difference because no one was willing to give him a chance. He wasn’t born to be the Councilman, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know the job well. He probably knew more about it than Vladislav did, and that was saying something.

He ducked his head again, and nodded at the answer. Without any political power, the man was tied up. He couldn't just release him and Trish because he wanted to, like Vladislav could have. He had to not help in a way that didn’t get in his way.

He knew that after the man left, he probably wouldn’t see him for a long, long time. If he did get out, he would be on the run, and Vilmos wouldn’t be able to help him. If he couldn't, then this conversation never happened. Some might find it cruel, but both men knew the trouble they could get in because of this, and didn’t want to risk more lives for the lives of the other.

"One more thing." Vilmos whispered, "You should probably know that whoever's been killing the Councilmen the Governors has been leaving messages that don’t make sense. I assume you saw the one near the body of Tynan? And you should probably know that the last person who saw Councilman Tynan's daughter, Terina, was Osred. She was with him in Sector B, if I remember right."

He made a mental note. Sector B was his next stop, once he and Trish were out, to get Terina and Osred. Then, he would find a way to get to Sector N, and get Cadis. Hopefully, after that, they could hide in the guildhall for a little while, and Osred would be able to actually make some sort of plan to get out of this mess. Osred was good at making plans, and if anyone could manage to figure out what was going on here, it was him.

He nodded and closed the door behind him, his head was down with his hair covering his eyes, but he had a plan. He wasn’t sure how well it would work, but it was something, which was more than he had an hour ago.

Instead of one guard waiting for him on the other side of the door, there were four, and each one had a sick smirk on their faces.

"Come on then, 907254179, let's see what you’ve learned while you were gone." Two of them grabbed his arms and dragged him forwards. One got in front of him, leading the way for the other two, and the final one was behind him, kicking out his feet in amusement to see him stumble.

They headed down a familiar path, and his eyes widened a bit in dread. He was let loose and shoved forward in a large, oval room with chairs on the edges. The Guards and Agents filed in, the last of them pulling a little girl with short red hair the color of blood inside. She was pushed to the middle of the room, like he was, and he held himself back from gasping. This was the little girl he had taken the punishment for before his meeting with Vladislav.

She had grown a bit, but was still shorter than he knew was healthy, as well as too thin. Her eyes were completely blank, and Cashel knew what that meant.

She wasn’t even ten, and yet she was completely and utterly shattered. Every bit of herself that made her unique was squished and torn out of her skin. Scars littered every inch of her small body, and he felt slightly sick at the look on her face.

Then, three more people came in, leading in a fourth who looked like she would rather be anywhere but here. Until she saw him, at least. Her face lit up, and she lifted a hand carefully, so that the Guards wouldn’t notice.

Trish was here.

Dread was growing in his stomach. Usually, they only brought in those that were supposed to fight to the death, but that couldn't be right. He was twenty two, taller, and while he had lost most of the weight he had managed to gain in Sector Z, he was overall more healthy than she was. She, on the other hand, was somewhere between eight and nine, had what was probably several broken ribs, a slightly crooked nose, probably broken as well, and seemed to favor her right ankle.

He wondered if they pulled the same stunt on her as they did on him, only she hadn't moved out of the way quick enough.

He raised an eyebrow at the guards, silently questioning what exactly they expected him to do. One of them, an Agent who thought he was a Councilman, stood up.

"This is a fight to the death between 907254179 and 10002578436. No weapons allowed. No stopping before the head of your opponent is brought to my feet while their body is on the other side of the room. You may begin now."

The little red head rushed towards him, and he side stepped her small body. She was fast, but he was trained to be faster. Again and again she tried to attack, until it looked almost like he was dancing out of the way.

He had no problems taking lives, but even he had standards. He didn’t kill children. He didn’t kill civilians. And he most certainly wouldn’t decapitate a child in front of another child.

A part of him knew that he needed to play along with their games in order for them to drop their guards around him, but he also knew that there was a difference between a child killing a child, and an adult killing one. He hadn't had to participate in these matches since he was fifteen. His final opponent had been a year older than himself. His very first fight to the death was when he was around six, and had killed a four year old because he didn’t have a choice. That had been the first life he had taken, certainly, but not the last.

It took almost an hour for her to finally fall over from exhaustion, and he raised an eyebrow at the guards, daring them to order him to kill her.

The only reason he kept getting in trouble in Valos before his release was because he didn’t like seeing children getting hurt. Just because he had been in the outside world didn’t mean that he was already broken enough to follow their orders.

"Either you do it," The pompous idiot ground out, tossing him an old, rusty knife, "or she does." He gestured to Trish. The girl was shaking, and he let the expression fall from his face.

Fine, he thought bitterly. He wouldn’t make the girl kill. He wouldn’t let her, and if killing the other child was the only way for her to keep her innocence, he would do it. He didn’t want to, but then again, when did what he wanted ever matter to anyone?

He grit his teeth. He knew that Trish would look at him as a monster after this, and frankly, he couldn't blame her. At least the girl was unconscious. He knelt down next to her, and pet her short red hair, before twisting her neck roughly, snapping it and killing her instantly.

Once the little girl was nothing more than a corpse at his side, he started cutting, digging the knife through her jugular first, to make sure she was dead. It was messy work, but he knew that if he didn’t, Trish would have to stain her hands.

It took about a minute for him to separate the head from the child's body, having done the exact same thing roughly eighty times before. He knew what was expected, and how to get it done while both causing the least mess, as well as the least pain for the one he had to cut up.

He was lucky in a way though, that they just wanted her head. He remembered several times where they wanted something else from his victims. Genitals, hearts, and lungs were their favorites to make him carve out.

It took a lot of effort not to look at Trish. He couldn't expect her to understand what he had done, and why. It wouldn’t matter that he had done it to spare her, all that would matter in her nightmares was seeing him walk across the oval room holding a bleeding head of a girl around her age.

The applause from the Guards and Agents made him feel sick. But as he put the head of the red haired girl at the man's feet, he knew that he had done it to keep Trish safe. She trusted him to get her out of this mess, alive. He wouldn’t let her down, even if that meant doing things he found disgraceful, revolting, and horrifying.

The others laughed and jeered, but he seethed as the Agent stepped on the girls head. He stomped once, twice, three times under foot, before Cashel had to turn away.

He knew that in that moment, with the dead body of a child he had tried to protect lying just a few feet away from him, and another child, this one traumatized by him, he had never hated himself more. He had gone through times of extreme self hatred before, but this time, he wasn’t sure he would be able to pull himself out of it.

He took a deep breath, before walking towards the door to be escorted back to his cell. It didn’t matter if he could or couldn't pull himself out. All that mattered was that he could get the other four free. Once he did that…

Well, that depended on Trish, and how she was healing by that point.

He was walked back to his cell, and, to his surprise, Trish was brought in as well. As soon as the door closed behind the Guard, he tensed. He expected her to yell or scream or cower away from him.

But she didn’t.

She threw herself into his arms and started crying. She tried talking through her tears, but he shushed her with a hand through her messy hair. He wasn’t sure how long she cried, or how long he rocked her before she finally fell asleep in his arms. If he spent the entire night in a light doze so that she could sleep peacefully, well, he wouldn’t say anything to anyone else. If he kissed her forehead when she started moving in her sleep to calm her, no one else would ever know.

Honestly, Cashel wasn’t sure why Trish still trusted him, but she did. And that trust would give him all the power he needed to get her out of Valos. One way or another, she would be free by the end of the week. He just hoped he knew what he was doing.


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it, everyone, the final chapter of Turning the Cards of Fate Book One. Please keep a close eye for book two, which will probably be posted Summer of 2017. I hope you enjoyed reading Cash's story as much as I enjoyed writing it! See you all in the next story!

 

Four days later, Trish was still plastered to his side as they headed towards the cafeteria. She never wandered from him unless she had to. If they kept her from meals, he would sneak his own out to her.

The first time, she had asked how he had gotten seconds, as if she expected an answer, but he just kept watch so that she wouldn’t get in trouble. He didn’t know how to tell her that he didn’t get seconds, so he didn’t. The second and third times, though, she stayed quiet.

Cashel was fairly certain that she had figured out the truth by this point, but had known better than to ask. That was alright though. He didn’t want her to know the truth. If he came back to the cell after being dragged away for something after an hour or so, he wouldn’t tell her it was because she made eye contact with an Agent, and he had taken her punishment for her.

The Guards and Agents certainly weren't protesting, if they noticed at all. He was strangely hopeful that they didn’t know, because they might use it as an excuse to cut his meals, leaving Trish to go hungry, or start hurting her.

He mentally shook his head. No, it was better that he didn’t say anything at all, he thought to himself, opening the door just enough for him to squeeze through. She followed less than a second later, and grabbed onto his hand.

He had seen several of the younger ones watching them, jealously. He knew why, of course. They didn’t have the solid presence of an older person who had been in this hell longer than they had been alive. They didn’t have anyone to hide behind when the Guards came in to make sure everything was going smoothly. They were alone. Trish wasn’t.

He had tried for years, to protect the younger ones, and most of them knew it, but it was one thing to take a punishment for them. It was another to be able to hold them and comfort them when they were scared.

If it was possible, he would have hidden all of the younger kids in his cell, and protected them in the same way he kept an eye on Trish, but with so many of them brain washed, and broken so that they killed on command, it wasn’t safe for them, or for him.

Cashel glanced around the room, looking for an open set of spots for them, before grabbing Trish and pulling him under him as he fell to the ground. A whizzing sound passed above him, and he shoved her towards a table where several of the other kids were cowering.

The only ones that weren't were the ones that were secretly hoping to get hit. He pushed himself up, and turned on his heel to see where the attack had come from. In the shadows was a person dressed in all black with a pure red mask and no eye holes.

He mentally cursed. He had a bad feeling that they weren't exactly a Normal Human. It was confirmed for him when a table was lifted and thrown at him. He was somehow, in the middle of a pack of Perfect humans, with only one of them bothering to hold a human shape.

He had no weapons, no clothing to shield his body. Nothing. Moronic Perfects. He glanced around the room, easily moving out of the way, and cursed when he realized there was nothing he could do when surrounded, not only by the Perfect Humans, but by the children.

He ran towards the table he left Trish under, and yanked her into his arms, before bolting towards the door. As soon as they were out, he ran towards where he knew the armory was.

It was a bit ironic, in his mind. He had been planning on raiding the armory today, but not until after they had eaten. The Perfect Humans, of course, came to screw with his timing. That was alright though, as he already had the codes needed to get inside. He ran as fast as he could, through the winding halls and towards the only place in the entire Rehabilitation Center that could actually help him.

Cashel knew that they were playing with him. If they actually wanted to, they could have out run him, cornered him, and devoured him. But they didn’t, they were either herding him, or playing with him. Seeing as they seemed content to follow his lead, he assumed it was the latter.

He punched in the codes to the door, ignoring the screams as the Perfect humans feasted on the Guards and Agents stupid enough to get in their way. He shoved the lock into place, and glanced around wildly. He sat Trish down in the corner, out of his way so he could move around freely. His back was aching, but he ignored it as he dug through drawer after drawer, looking for his stuff.

The first thing he found were his boots, which were somehow still in one piece. He slipped them on his feet, and pulled a pair of trousers that belonged to a Guard on, as well as throwing a shirt to Trish.

For a moment, just one, he allowed himself to smile a bit, this was exactly what he had done with Zephira, before he had ever even know anything about her. He had decided to save her at the last moment, and he hadn't regretted it, until he had woken up here and found out what they had done to her.

He hoped that the same thing wouldn’t happen to Trish, but there was no way to be certain in this world. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t fight until his last breath to make sure that she got through this.

He armed himself far more than he probably should have, and took a deep breath. Trish grabbed his arm, and he glanced at her over his shoulder. She held up a small box in one hand, and he smirked.

This had to be the most resistant bow in existence for it to still exist, he couldn't help but think as he pressed the button on the side. It clinked back to life, and he glanced at her. Where had she found this? He had been looking everywhere.

"Under the bench, C.J." She whispered. Thankfully, she wasn’t cowering right now. He needed her to be strong, and she knew it. She cracked a small smile as he walked quickly over to the bench and crouched down. She couldn't help the gasp that escaped her lips. He ignored it.

Sure, he was in pain, and his entire body burned, but it would only get worse if he was forced to stay here. He really wanted to give his body a chance to heal up, and hopefully, to get rid of the static in his blood. He found half a dozen of his retractable arrows, and set two in the bow.

He glanced around, looking at the more barren walls, and bit his lip. He really didn’t want to give Trish a weapon, because he didn’t want her to have to take a life. On the other hand, if they got separated, she would be completely at the mercy of whoever found her first.

A part of his soul protested as he pulled out two smaller Iron Fire Shots, and gave her as much ammunition as she could carry. With that, he opened the door to hell. He was immediately jumped on by a guard, which he shot in the head with the Iron Fire shot in his non dominant hand. His right hand hated all things guns, but for some reason, he was better with that hand than he was his left when it came to guns.

The man's brain exploded, and he ignored it, eyes already moving onto the next target before his last even had a chance to reach the floor. He heard footsteps following him, and tried not to grimace. This would get annoying.

Trish was loud, and he wasn’t used to working with her. He couldn't afford to carry her, though, as his bow, when he used it, required both hands to let off a shot. If he was just using guns, then maybe, but he personally preferred either his knives or his bow. It made things so much easier on him.

Two more shots were fired before he had a chance to think about it, and two more bodies dropped to the ground. He moved forward, trusting both his instincts and Trish to watch his back. A second set of feet ran up behind him, and he turned on his heel, firing just over Trish's head. A fourth body fell, and he forced himself to move faster through the winding white hallways. Sometimes, he ducked into the shadows, pulling Trish with him, others, he fired and killed before they had a chance to understand what was going on.

He was thankful about one thing though, it seemed like the Guards and Agents were keeping the Perfect's busy. He knew he wouldn’t be able to take them down even half as quickly as he did anyone else.

The final hallway came and went, as did the door blocking their way to freedom. He only had a second to let his eyes adjust, before he pulled Trish to the ground as a bullet whizzed over her head. He had his own Iron Fire Shot pulled out and shooting back before he could think.

He forced himself to get up, and shot a few more times at the people shooting at him. He cursed when the Iron Fire Shot clicked on him. He was out of ammunition. Great. Quickly and efficiently, he plucked one of the weapons out of Trish's hand and resumed fire on the poor idiots that thought they could take his life without him taking down a few guards of his own.

He did a few quick mental calculations, and spotted a bubble carriage within sprinting distance. This one was so interesting, because he knew that this was the type of carriage that Vladislav rode it. It was bullet proof. He crouched a bit and gestured for Trish to get on his back with one hand as the other fired another life ending shot.

If he was going to get her safely in the bubble carriage, then he needed her to be able to keep up. Even if she hadn't been punished as he had been, it didn’t mean that she wasn’t weaker than usual; and he couldn't afford to let that weakness slow him down.

She was reluctant to touch his back, and he understood why. The scabs and burns were the least of the injuries, but at this point, it was either this, or she got left behind. Since the later wasn’t an option, she had to wrap her arms around his neck.

It was more uncomfortable than he would even admit, but at least here, he could make sure that she was safe.

He fired a few more shots, and once they ducked out of the way, as he knew they would, he sprinted with every bit of strength he had in his body towards the carriage. He opened it, pulled Trish off his back, and got in within a few seconds. He closed the carriage behind himself, and started it with a quick flick of his hand. It closed and formed a protective bubble around them.

It took less than a second to get it moving towards his destination going far faster than he had ever dared to before. He wasn’t exactly a good driver, per say, but he was good enough to get them out of the lawn next to Valos Rehabilitation Center.

He mentally thanked Vilmos, and even the Perfect's, because without them, he would have still been stuck in that place. He blacked out the bubble, put in the coordinates to the guildhall, and collapsed on the seat beside Trish.

That sucked.

He never wanted to do that again. Ever.

"Are you alright C.J.?" Trish asked in a small voice. He shrugged his shoulders. He would be fine. He looked her over, and she giggled. "I'm fine, promise." He gave her a skeptical look, but at this point, he didn’t really have a choice but to believe her.

He looked at the other benches, and thanked Vilmos again. Two sets of clothing, actual clothing that he would have worn, and a set for Trish, had been laid out against the seat. He picked up the mint green button up shirt, and ran his hands over the soft material. Vilmos had also stocked him on weapons and food. There were, to his delight, two dozen more bundles of his arrows, a spare bow, and several dozen more knives. He knew most people would have considered it overkill, but he wasn’t most people. He knew what happened when he ran out of supplies before he should have.

His favorite thing on the bench, though, was a pair of sturdy, but shinning, black boots. He slipped the shirt over his head, and gestured for Trish to take the soft pink top and light blue jeans. She slipped on the jeans, and they turned away from each other to finish getting dressed. Once they had, he started stuffing every pocket and space that he had open with weapons of some kind.

Trish wouldn’t know, but he had carefully attached two knives in their holsters to his thighs, as well as slipped a couple of them up his sleeves. He knew exactly how to move to make sure that his weapons wouldn’t show.

That done, he slid on the black jacket over the shirt, and buttoned it closed. It wasn’t a suit, no, he was dressed in a light green shirt, black jeans, and the black jacket that made him look slightly bulkier than he actually was. The only guns they had were the ones they brought from the armory, but that was a good thing, he didn’t really like Iron Fire Shots at all. He slipped as many arrows as he could into his boots, then into the hidden pockets of his jacket. The weapons he couldn't fit on his person were put in a black satchel for him to keep.

He felt more confident as he approached the guild hall. As long as Trish kept her head down, she wouldn’t attract that much attention. The only thing that gave her away as a Partial Human was her eyes. That said, instead of relief growing in his stomach, something else did.

Dread.

He wasn’t sure why, after all, they had proven that they could stand the presence of Partial Human's when they let Cadis stay.

In fact, he didn’t understand why until the guildhall came into view. He felt his breath catch. It looked normal, far too normal. It was staged, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t sure why.

Cobwebs were everywhere, and the ivy that Kalystia kept a close eye on had climbed higher than before. That was something odd, but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. There was a card on the door that normally blended into the wood. He knew that it had been there since the founding of Turning the Cards.

On the other side of it, it was pure white, with a single bolded black word: Fate.

That was the equivalent of someone leaving on flashing red lights to him and the others. No one would turn the card over unless there was literally no other choice. It was supposed to be a sign for those who had been out of the guildhall to not come back. It meant that death had found them. He had been warned that if he ever saw the word on the other side of the card, he needed to pass by, and not stop. There would be nothing he could do anyway.

The guildhall would have been abandoned by everyone still surviving, and somehow, he doubted it was a high number. Instead of following the rules and passing by unnerved, he stopped the carriage.

He gestured for Trish to stay there, and since she didn’t know what the card meant, she wouldn’t understand exactly why he was so cautious. That was alright though, her innocence was refreshing in a way.

He slowly made his way over to the door, keeping a close eye out for traps. He twisted the knob slightly, and it fell open. A corpse fell on him, knocking him to the ground. He bit his teeth and shoved the rotting body off of him.

His breath caught again when he realized who it was.

Kalystia, with her eyes torn out, one barely in the socket, had probably turned the card of fate with her last breath as a warning for those outside the walls.

He wondered what happened, but he knew he would never know. If even Kalystia had been killed by whoever had done this, he knew he didn’t stand a chance. that said, he knew the guild fought until their last breaths, and set as many traps as they could. It wasn’t enough though, and Kalystia probably realized that, bleeding out and missing an eye. She had probably staggered over to the door and turned the card with the last beat of her heart.

Cashel let out a long sigh, but he knew better than to actually go inside. He straightened his shoulders and pushed himself off of the ground.

He glanced at her corpse, and considered leaving it as a warning, but dismissed it quickly. Whatever had killed her would be back, that he didn’t doubt. He just couldn't let himself leave her here.

That decided, he stood, dusted off his jeans and grabbed a large spear that was more for decoration than an actual fight. He dug the sharp end into the ground and started digging.

It took the better part of two hours, and he knew that Trish was watching him from the safety of the carriage, but he finally dug a big enough hole for her to rest in. A little bit more effort, and she was resting at the bottom of the shallow grave. Her eye had fallen off finally, and seemed to watch him from the sidelines. He slowly covered her body with the dirt, and couldn't believe he was doing this.

Hadn't he been thinking of her just a few days ago? Hadn't he been thinking of ways to get her away from the guild so that she could enjoy her last few years? Hadn't he laughed to himself that she would be one of the few members of Turning the Card's that actually managed to retire?

While he had been thinking of them fondly, relatively safe at that point, she and the others had been fighting for their lives and losing. It was a strange thought. He knew that the only difference that he would have made if he had been here was a slight difference in body count, but that didn’t stop the guilt from welling up in his chest.

A part of him wondered if it had anything to do with him, after all, everything else seemed to. This whole mess had started because Vladislav had freed him. Oh, he wasn’t arrogant enough to think that it was all his fault. Nor was he shallow enough to not realize that this would have happened, most likely, even if he had never met Osred or any of the others.

He glanced over at the fate card, dusted off his hands, and sighed silently. He was numb, and couldn't exactly resent it. He leaned on the spear that had become his shovel, and stared down at the fresh grave.

Would this have happened no matter what? Was he somehow a catalyst for the events that had happened since his release? Or had he simply been a convenient target to blame the events on? Either way, he hated it, and wanted nothing more than to scream and yell.

He forced the anger down to a simmer and took a deep breath. He needed to decide if he was going to risk his life for information that may not even exist, or if he should go. Most of him wanted to go find Osred, Terina, and Cadis, but a little part of him shied away from the thought.

What if he had to be the one to tell Cadis and Osred what happened to their home? What if they didn’t know what had happened? What if he had to let them know about the turning of the card of fate? 

He may not be able to talk, but that didn’t mean anything. Not really. It just meant that they would have to ether read about what he had seen, or guess. That said, he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to do this on his own.

His eyes moved to the grave again, and he sighed. He had already made a decision, he just had to admit it to himself. He sagged slightly against the spear, and let his eyes fall shut.

For the first time since he had gotten through the doors of Valos, he regretted the meeting with Vladislav. He knew it was irrational, but he also knew that if he hadn't gotten out when he did, there was a chance that the events that had happened would have been postponed for a few more years. Terina would probably still have her dad, and Zephira wouldn’t have died knowing that Sector Z had lost all of its former glory that her dad worked so hard to create.

He wanted nothing more than to curl up and die next to the corpses of the people he had lived with. He brought a hand to his face, and smiled bitterly. He couldn't cry. He wouldn't cry here, not when he still had to fight for someone.

If he had to fight for himself again, he wouldn’t be able to. No, he had used up all of his chances with himself to be happy. He didn’t deserve it after everything that had happened. Zephira had been tortured for him, and Ulric was most likely dead thanks to him.

This time, though, he wasn’t fighting to make sense of a world that twisted around him like a whirlpool. No, he was fighting for Trish, for her future, for her life. For her, at least, he knew life was a little better since he had gotten her away from the slave traders. She may not have been safer with him, but he valued her, and he wouldn’t break because she still needed him.

There was a chance to fix this. All he had to do was to get Osred, Cadis, and Terina out of where they were being held. Once he did that, Osred would be able to guide them, and he would just have to fight in the outward battles. He would help them see safety and freedom again. But once they were, once he was useless again, he would be able to shatter.

Until then, he had to hold on.

He took a deep breath, and shoved away all the feelings of regret that threatened to drown him, before he headed towards the carriage. He glanced for one more second, at the card of fate on the back of the door, and cracked a bitter smile.

Fate had dealt him a crap hand, but he would turn them around. Yeah, he thought with a small smile.

He could turn the cards of fate. He would do so until he found a hand that he could actually live with the consequences of.

He opened the door to the carriage, and wasn’t expecting the flying ball of blonde that fell into his arms. He rubbed Trish's back soothingly and just held her close.

"Are you alright C.J.?" She asked in a whisper.

He quirked his lips slightly, "I think so." He mouthed.

Her eyes widened, and his did too as soon as his ear realized what he had heard. He brought a hand to his throat, and rubbed the scar lightly.

"Did you just… C.J., did you just talk?"

She was clearly waiting for a response, and he considered just giving her a secretive little smirk. Instead, he turned away from her, starting the carriage, and plugged in the coordinates for Sector B.

She tugged on his arm. "C.J.!" She whined. "Can you or cant you talk?"

He held a finger to his lips, and smirked. If he could, it was going to be their little secret. Already, he had turned the cards that fate had dealt him, and he made sure that she couldn't see his lips.

"Maybe." He muttered out. His voice was scratchy and weak from disuse, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to talk again for a little bit. He was alright with that though, he could finally speak up when he got the urge.

It was funny in a way, that the person he was fighting for more than the others was the only one who had ever heard his voice. He didn’t mind, though, and from the feeling of her leaning against his side, curling up contently, she didn’t mind much either.

 

The END


End file.
